


These Bloody Days

by fionasank



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (not a lot) (at all) (barely any cos it bums me out), 1930s, 1940s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Normal High School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Childhood Friends, Comedy, Depression, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, High School, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Language, Minor Natasha Romanov/Sam Wilson, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, References to Depression, Teen Angst, Teenagers, War Era, like so much fucking angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2018-08-21 19:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 89,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8256887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fionasank/pseuds/fionasank
Summary: In the high school nurse's office, 1936, Steve and Bucky bond over a mutual love of terrible, period-appropriate jokes and the fact that there is something very wrong with both of them.





	1. Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's that time again. I have written something loaded with angst. Like, oh my god. Oh my god, you guys. So much. Like, what's wrong with me? Why is everything I write so damn sad? Oh well.
> 
> So I know where this is going, I've got it all planned out, but I'm toying with the idea of like... writing two endings? And letting you choose which one you think is real or whatever. Would anyone be up for that? Or am I just being indecisive. Let me know.
> 
> I just started my second year of university and instead of writing/reading for my degree, I have been writing/reading this, and thinking about this, every second of every day since the start of August. I'm going to plagiarise this so much for my coursework this year lmao. (Is that a thing? Can you plagiarise yourself? Probably. Why am I asking so many questions in this chapter note?) So... hope you enjoy! Because if you don't enjoy my life has no meaning and I'll die inside. :)
> 
> PS: if you hadn't guessed from the fact that this is part one of four and it's 30k, this is gonna be long af. I've written about 50k of it in total and I'm barely halfway through. So strap in kids this is gonna be a long ride
> 
> PPS: read the tags for trigger warnings, potentially triggering af in places

A schoolyard on a Thursday. Lunchtime. 1936. The Gestapo no longer move under civil law and answer only to Himmler and Hitler. The United States passes a neutrality bill with strong isolationist support, under the slogan “schools, not battleships.” Jewish soldiers in the German army have been excluded from service. Franklin Roosevelt is running for his second term and _Gone with the Wind_ has just been released. The air is clear and the sky is cloudy and it’s raining a little and Steve is in trouble again.

“I’m not gonna hit you, Rogers,” huffs Brock, lighting up a cigarette, his entourage of cronies and half the school behind him. “It’s boring. It’s too easy.”

Steve hitches up his pants, having grown too small for even the tightest belt loop. “Then take it back.”

Brock barks a laugh and blows smoke in Steve’s face. He may as well have hit him; the smoke has the same effect on Steve’s lungs. Steve leans against a wall for a moment and tries to recover without looking like he’s trying to recover. “Not like you’re a lady. What do you care if I think they shouldn’t get the vote?”

“You’re such an asshole,” Steve says. “It isn’t the twenties anymore. You gotta know your opinion is wrong.”

“Whatever happened to freedom of speech?”

“Just cos they can’t arrest you for bein’ an asshole, doesn’t mean you’re not an asshole.”

Brock flicks the ash off his cigarette and rolls up his right sleeve. “Call me an asshole one more time.”

“I thought hitting me was boring?”

“It’s getting interesting.”

“You’re…” Steve swallows. Suddenly his throat is thick.

_Not now,_ he thinks.

“What, you’re scared now?” Brock teases, standing there with his three blurry heads.

“You’re an asshole,” Steve mumbles as he passes out. He doesn’t know if Brock hits him or if it’s just the ground. Either way, he could do this all day.

* * *

The room he wakes up in is cold and familiar. The white tile and mason jar of tongue depressors tell him it’s the nurse’s office, a place he’s seen too many times during his high school career.

He looks around himself, at the five other beds crammed into the small room, all identical to the one they’ve put him on; white sheets, white pillow. Clinical and clean. And like his own bed, one of the others is also occupied.

There’s a boy staring at him with grey eyes and a wrinkle between his eyebrows.

“Hi,” Steve says.

“Hello,” the boy says. His voice is strained.

Steve doesn’t recognise him. But then, he doesn’t really pay attention to the other people at the school.

The boy looks like he’s about to say something else when the nurse comes in. She walks over to Steve with a smile and says, “Hey, you’re awake. You gave us a bit of a scare there.”

“It was nothin’,” Steve says quickly. “Really. Just fatigue again.”

The boy raises his eyebrows. _Again?_

The nurse tuts, places a thermometer in his mouth. “Well, I still gotta take your temperature… one oh one. That’s high, young man.”

Steve shrugs. “Really, it’s fine. I’ve had higher.”

The nurse frowns at him, but truth is, she knows he’s right. He’s been here hundreds of times before. So many times that he knows her name is Sharon, though he’s not supposed to. She’s meant to be Nurse Carter, or ma’am. Even ‘hey, you’ would probably go down better than calling a staff member by their first name.

“I’ll be back in a little while to see if your fever’s gone down.” She leaves him be and moves over to the boy sitting across from him. “How’s your leg?”

The boy’s leg is covered in a bandage. Blood is seeping through it.

“It’s bleeding,” the boy says. His voice is deep, about as deep as all the other seniors’ voices, deeper than Steve’s.

“I can see that.” She shakes her head, her blonde curls shifting. The boy glances at them. “I’ll fetch another bandage.”

Nurse Carter leaves the room, and the two boys are left staring at each other.

“Are you the kid who passed out in the yard?” the boy asks him.

Steve smiles a little at the bluntness. “Yeah. That was me.”

“That was neat.”

“Did you see it?”

“No, but my friends told me about it.”

“It wasn’t very neat from my perspective.”

“I bet it wasn’t.”

The boy pauses and glances around the room for a second, but Steve keeps staring, at the boy’s brown hair and thick eyebrows and clear skin. He looks like he spends a lot of time outside. He looks like he’s popular. That’s probably why he and Steve don’t know each other.

“What happened to _you_?” Steve asks him.

The boy smirks. “Isn’t that a bit nosy?”

“Hey, you know what happened to _me_. It’s only right. We gotta be even.”

“The whole school knows what happened to you. You wanna go round askin’ everyone how they got their cuts and bruises?”

Steve nods in determination. “Yep. And you’re my first. How’d’ya get that big cut?”

The boy rolls his eyes. “Baseball,” he answers. “Sliding into third.”

Baseball player. Steve’s assumption about spending time outside was correct. And probably the one about him being popular is, too, if this boy is the jock type.

The other boy looks like he’s about to say something else when his face scrunches up. “It hurts,” he says after a moment.

“Yeah.”

“Do you hurt?”

“A little,” Steve says, ignoring the pain in his chest that’s definitely not fatigue.

“How do you stop thinkin’ about it?”

Steve shrugs. “I’m used to it.” The boy stares at him, so he explains, “I have a lot of chronic illnesses.”

“That blows,” the boy says, and Steve laughs.

“That’s something that helps, actually,” Steve adds. “Laughing.”

“Oh really?” the boy asks, his eyebrows raising, gently mocking, but not in a cruel way. “Laughter is medicine?”

“Yeah.”

“Prove it.”

Steve shakes his head, but the boy insists. “Go on! Prove it. I won’t believe you if you don’t prove it.”

“Alright.” Steve feels very put on the spot, but he racks his brain to think of something funny. “Well, there’s this one I read in the paper the other day. Uh. This teacher is doing math and she asks her students, what if I took a potato and I cut it in half, and then in half again, and then in half one more time? What would I have?”

He looks at the boy like he’s expecting an answer.

“Uh. Quarters. No! Eighths. Right?” The boy smirks. “I’m bad at math.”

“Me too. But you wanna know what the student said?”

“Boy, do I.”

“Potato salad.”

The boy looks at him blankly. Then he laughs. It’s very loud and it’s the most wonderful thing Steve has heard all week.

“That’s good,” the boy says finally, wiping one of his eyes with the back of his hand. “That’s funny. I actually feel better. Why do I feel better?”

Steve shrugs. “Well, I got a theory.”

The boy leans forwards and trains his eyes on Steve’s. “Tell me.”

Steve blushes under the focused gaze. “Well. I think it’s cos it’s the loudest thing you can do that’s socially acceptable.”

The boy smiles. “That’s smart. I like that. Like how it’s cathartic to scream, but you can’t just go around screaming all the time.”

“Exactly.”

“Alright.” He grins and shuffles in the bed until he’s sitting all the way up. “I got one for ya.”

“One what?”

“A joke! You didn’t laugh at that one, cos you already knew it. So I gotta pay you back.”

Steve grins back. “Alright. Hit me.”

“Where was the Declaration of Independence signed?”

“At the bottom.”

“Damnit! Alright, lemme think of another one… Alright, so there’s this lady telling this other lady about this friend she has, who married three guys called William. And the other lady says–”

“She must be a Bill collector.”

“God damnit!” the boy groans, banging his fist on the edge of the bed. “How do you know all the punchlines?”

“I got a lot of time to read.”

The boy shakes his head in disbelief. “I’ll think of another one. I’ll get you back, even if it takes me a year.”

“Fifty years, maybe,” Steve teases.

“Yeah, okay, I accept that challenge. In fifty years I’m gonna tell ya a joke that’ll knock your socks off.”

They smile at each other, and Steve feels better for a moment anyway.

“If we’ve got plans fifty years in the future, I think you should know that my name is Steve.”

The boy holds out his hand. Steve barely reaches it, and almost falls out of bed with the energy of the handshake.

“I’m James. But all my friends call me Bucky.”

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

“Nice to meet ya too, Steve.”

The blonde nurse comes back in then and checks the boy’s – James’ – Bucky’s leg wound. She puts on a new bandage and tells him, “You’re fine to leave. But be more careful next time.”

“Never,” Bucky says, and winks at her. She just rolls her eyes and walks out of the room.

“Alright, I gotta get to class.” Bucky picks up his bag, but his smile falters as he looks at Steve. “Aw. You’re gonna be on your own.”

“I’m used to it.”

“That’s so sad.” Bucky thinks for a second before pulling a book out of his bag and handing it to Steve. “Here. I just finished this.”

Steve looks at the book: _The Great Gatsby._

“Sorry. I’ve already read this.”

Bucky throws up his hands. “Is there anything you _haven’t_ read?”

Steve swells with pride, but tries to keep his expression modest. He just shrugs.

“Alright, well.” Bucky takes the book back and slings his bag over his shoulder. “I guess I’ll just see ya around.”

“Sure. Thanks for keepin’ me company.”

“S’alright. Same to you.”

Bucky gives him a half wave before limping out of the room.

Steve watches him go, the remnant of a smile fading from his face. He rearranges his pillows and flops backwards, getting comfortable, the pain in his chest fierce without the distraction that was Bucky.

Nurse Carter takes his temperature again halfway through last period, and it’s under a hundred, which is good enough for her to let him go. With twenty minutes until the end of class, Steve decides to just go home. It’s not like anyone will notice that he’s gone, anyway; he’s so quiet and small that he can sit at the back of class all day and draw without anyone saying anything.

He walks home through downtown Brooklyn, taking a small detour to walk by the river, and arrives at home at the same time he would usually be getting out of class. This gives him an awful lot of satisfaction.

“Is that a burglar?” his mother asks as he shuts the door behind him. “Because it couldn’t possibly be my darling son. He won’t be back for another twenty minutes. So you must be here for my valuables. I warn you – I don’t have any.”

“We have _some_ valuables,” Steve says, walking into the kitchen where his mother sits at the kitchen table, sewing up a hole in his pants. “What about the silverware?”

“Of course, how silly of me. We’re good enough to be burgled after all!”

Steve laughs and sits down next to her, leaning across the table to kiss her on the cheek. “I didn’t skip class or anythin’. They just let us out early, is all.”

Sarah Rogers narrows her eyes at him, but doesn’t say anything. Instead she holds up his pants and stares at him through a hole in the knee. “How do you keep tearing these?”

Steve remembers the guy in the theatre who wouldn’t stop heckling.

“I trip a lot.”

Sarah works on the hole and holds up the pants again. “Can you see me?”

“Nope.”

“Then the hole is fixed.”

She hands him his finished pants and gestures to the kettle. “Tea?”

“Yes, please.”

“Very funny.”

Steve boils the kettle and makes some tea and they sit and Steve tells her about what he’s learned at school today and Sarah tells him about the book she’d just finished reading and how she thought it was terrible but she’d cried anyway.

After they finish the tea there’s a brief silence, a comfortable one, one in which to say important things, so Steve says, “It rained a little today.”

Sarah’s eyes light up. “What was it like?”

“It was cold and a little windy. It only lasted a few minutes.”

“It sounds wonderful. How was the rest of the day?”

“Normal. Cloudy.”

Sarah smiles. “Good.” Steve knows that she says this because when it’s cloudy, there’s less chance for Steve to burn. He burns at the slightest hint of sun. Once he swears he got a sunburn overnight by leaving his window open, but his mom doesn’t believe him.

After dinner, they go to bed, and Steve stares at the ceiling and wraps the three blankets tighter around himself. He thinks about how this is the third time he’s passed out this month, how the first time was in the movie theatre and people thought he was sleeping, and the second time was in the shower where he woke up three hours later, alone, soaking, and bruised. This time he’d had an audience, which hadn’t been ideal. But people don’t understand much about illness, so he can keep making up things that don’t sound serious.

He knows full well that he could fall asleep now and not wake up. And his mother could do the same. But he sleeps soundly anyway because there’s nothing he could do to stop it.

* * *

The next week, Steve gets to school ten minutes late. He’s always a little late to some degree, because he’s not so good at rushing out the door, always moving slowly and talking to his mother too long about how many coats he needs (he’s brought two).

He sneaks into first period and no one notices him enter.

“The Great War began in 1914 and ended in 1918 – the year a lot of you were born,” says Miss Hill, writing the dates on the blackboard in her curly handwriting. “I know this is history class, but to a lot of people, myself included, this is recent. You all should count yourselves lucky you were born into a time of peace like this. It all began with the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand…”

Steve opens up his exercise book and turns to the back. He continues the sketch of a woman – her hair and clothes are those of Miss Hill, but her face is his mother’s.

“So the Black Hand threatened to assassinate the Archduke, and as you’ve probably worked out yourselves, they made good on their promise… James, you’re bleeding.”

“Pardon? Oh. Look at that.”

Steve looks up from his drawing at the familiar voice. There, in the front row, is the boy from the nurse’s office. Bucky. And his leg is bleeding all over the floor.

“That’s so gross,” groans the light haired boy next to him, looking very pale.

“James, please go to the nurse’s office before Clint vomits.”

“Aye aye. I mean – yes, ma’am.” Bucky picks up his notebook and slings his bag over his shoulder before limping out of the room.

Steve continues his sketch after Bucky leaves, feeling stupid that they’d been in the same class at the same time all year, probably for years before, and hadn’t recognised each other. But that was just Steve’s way. He went unnoticed, and he tried not to notice people back.

After class he walks through the hall, putting his books in his bag and thinking about what to make for dinner when he hears, “Son of a _bitch!”_

“Would you stay still!”

Steve ducks his head into the nurse’s office and sees Nurse Carter trying to stitch Bucky’s leg up. Bucky’s digging his fingers into the chair and his eyes are welled up. Steve recognises the look of pain.

“Hey.”

Bucky looks up. “Hey. Got any good jokes on ya?”

Steve pulls up a chair in the small office and sits next to Bucky. Nurse Carter, to her credit, doesn’t look up or get distracted while she’s threading a needle through a teenage boy.

“I can tell you the story of when I met Bing Crosby.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up and his mouth drops open. “You’re serious?”

“Yep. My ma’s a huge fan and heard he was comin’ through New York, so a couple years back we went down to watch him sign autographs in the city. My mom pushed me to the front o’the crowd and started goin’ on about how I’m his biggest fan an’ everything, and he signs my paper and starts to walk past me. But I’m wearin’ this long coat that was my dad’s, so it’s about three foot too long for me, and he trips over it.”

Bucky stares at him, mouth still open. “Bing Crosby tripped over your coat.”

“Yeah. He fell right over and landed in a puddle.”

Bucky stares for a few more seconds before starting to laugh, starting off quiet and getting so loud Steve can hardly hear himself think. Sharon takes the opportunity to get some stitches in, and Bucky doesn’t even flinch.

“You ain’t even heard the rest yet.”

“There’s _more_?” Bucky wheezes, wiping his eyes. “There can’t be more.”

“Well, I tried to help him up, but I was so little that when he started to pull himself up I dropped him and he fell in again.”

Bucky laughs again, tipping his head back. Steve’s eyes flash to the tanned skin of his throat and he looks away quickly. His eyes settle on the cotton shirt Bucky’s wearing; it looks like it was ironed just this morning.

“Done,” Nurse Carter says, cutting the end of the thread with some scissors. “Thank you, Mr Rogers, for making that a helluva lot easier,” she says to Steve as she puts a fresh bandage on.

“No problem, ma’am,” Steve replies, looking at the floor.

She busies herself putting the supplies away and Bucky sits up, pokes at his leg. “I hope I get a scar,” he says, looking to Steve for his opinion. “Scars are cool.”

“They’re alright.”

“Thanks for that.”

Steve shrugs. “I was just passin’ through.”

Bucky claps him on the shoulder and Steve flinches. “Well, thanks for passin’ through. Hey,” he says with a sudden smile, light in his eyes. “I got one for ya.”

“A joke?”

“Yeah! I was doin’ some research and I found a good one.”

Steve laughs. “Research?”

“Okay, I was readin’ comics. But I got a good one.”

“Go on then.”

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Landon.”

“Landon who?”

“Landon bridge is falling down.”

Bucky grins and spreads his hands expectantly. Steve stares at him.

“You’re not laughing. Have you heard it before?”

“No. But it’s terrible.”

Bucky’s face falls. “I thought it was funny!”

“It’s the stupidest joke I’ve ever heard,” Steve tells him, but a smile slips onto his face anyway.

Bucky points at it. “Ha! You’re smiling! That counts.”

“Alright. We’re 3-1,” Steve concedes, unwilling to tell Bucky that his smile wasn’t at the joke but with the excitement Bucky had told it.

Bucky jumps off the chair, landing heavily on his good leg before sinking slowly onto the bad one. “Don’t think I’ll be back on the field anytime soon.”

“I’ll say.”

“I gotta get to second period. What about you?” Bucky asks, looking at the clock and frowning, realising that Steve’s not in class. “Do you have a free period?”

Steve shrugs. “Nah. I kinda just slip in and out. I ain’t exactly a model student.”

Bucky tuts and shakes his head. A bit of his hair flops forwards onto his forehead and he pushes it back with the heel of his hand. It’s a careless gesture, one that reveals Bucky’s nature as a kid who’s never had to wonder if he looks okay. “Well, what class are you meant to have?”

“Science. With Banner.”

“No shit. Me too.”

“We’ve got History together, too. I watched you bleed all over the floor.”

“How do we have classes together but I have no idea who the hell you are?”

Steve looks down at himself and says dryly, “I don’t exactly stand out.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You stand out fine. Come on, don’t wanna be any later than we already are.”

They walk out into the empty hall and make their way towards the science block. Steve quickly gets winded at keeping up with Bucky, who is much taller. Steve hopes that his lacking height is due to delayed puberty, but his dropped voice and armpit hair argue that he’s already hit it, and this is the best he’s gonna get.

 “You do the homework?” Bucky asks, making conversation. It’s unnecessary because the silence is already filled with the sound of their footsteps, but Bucky talks anyway.

“There was homework?”

Bucky huffs a laugh. “You’re a real slacker, huh?”

They get to class – the non-confrontational Dr. Banner doesn’t even raise his voice at them – and sit in their seats. Immediately Steve loses Bucky in the sea of brown-haired heads – everyone is tall, everyone has messy hair. When they leave class, he loses Bucky in the crowds of people laughing and pushing each other and talking about carpooling to the party tonight. A party that of course, no one had told Steve about. But that’s fine.

He walks home and feels the chill wind on his face and tries to remember how it feels so he can describe it to his mom. He thinks about how he’ll probably never talk to Bucky again in his whole life. And then he loses that thought in all the other thoughts that are always crowding his head.

* * *

It’s eleven p.m. when Bucky emerges from the drive-in, Natasha and Sam raving next to him about how much they loved _Modern Times_ and Scott moaning about how he didn’t get it and can they just get home and drink already.

They sit in Scott’s basement with the radio on and cigarettes lit and they drink the bottle of scotch that Sam had snuck out from his parents’ cabinet. It’s dark and it’s warm and he can’t see the faces of his friends. They talk and laugh and tell stories and Bucky sits in silence with the bottle and drinks and drinks and drinks, and says he’s tired and falls asleep on the couch and they moan at him for being no fun.

The music they play peppers his dreams but it doesn’t make them any better.

* * *

It’s a long time before they talk again. Christmas break comes and goes, the snow falls and melts and falls again. Steve gets hand-knitted socks on Christmas Day. Bucky gets some new sneakers and some records. They eat their turkeys and Bucky’s family plays football in the park while Steve reads Sarah the Bible until she falls asleep.

They see each other again on the second day back at school. It’s not snowing, but it’s thick on the ground, and Steve makes a note to bring some of it inside for his mom before it disappears for the year. It’s 1937, and a Tuesday, and Steve is in trouble.

Word had gotten around about his _liberal_ opinions, and in the all-boys school, this isn’t the right opinion to have.

Schmidt lands a left hook and Steve flies backwards, hitting his elbow on the bleachers. Schmidt and his friends laugh as Steve pulls himself up, feeling the new hole he’s just ripped in his pants. He starts thinking of an excuse to tell his mom, before he’s hit again and his priorities right themselves.

He manages to stay standing this time, and Schmidt laughs, giving him a slow clap. “I’m impressed. You’re getting better at this.”

“I could do this all day,” Steve says, because he’s found it’s the best way to wind up guys like this, acting like their strength means nothing to you, because their strength is all they have.

“You mother fucker.” Schmidt grabs his shoulder and holds him in place while he slams his fist into Steve’s gut.

Immediately Steve is winded. There isn’t enough air in the whole world. Schmidt releases him and he collapses, curls into a ball, knowing that it would only take a kick to the chest for him to black out. He hopes Schmidt doesn’t know this too.

There’s laughing above him and Schmidt says, “What? You not gonna get up? I thought you could do this all day. Huh? Rogers?”

“Yeah! Get up, Rogers!” one of Schmidt’s friends yells.

“Shut up, man! Not so loud! The baseball team’s right over there.”

“Hey. Hey! What the fuck are you doing!”

A voice he recognises.

“Fuck off.”

“Get the hell out of here, man! Leave him alone!”

“Or what?”

“You wanna pick on someone your own size? Huh? You think we’re about the same size? How ‘bout you give hitting _me_ a go, huh? See how that works out for ya?”

There’s mumbling, someone says, “He’s not worth it, man,” and footsteps recede. Steve’s eyes are squeezed shut and he opens them when there’s a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Hey. Steve? That you? It’s Bucky. Remember me?”

Steve rolls onto his back and opens his eyes slowly. Bucky’s face appears, and the blue sky, and nothing else.

“Hey.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Steve croaks.

“Like hell you are. C’mon.” He holds out his hand, and Steve takes it, and suddenly he’s being hauled to his feet so fast that he gets a head rush. He stumbles, has to grab onto Bucky’s arm for support, but Bucky doesn’t seem to notice. “Let’s get ya to our favourite spot, huh?”

* * *

Nurse Carter shrugs and hands Steve an asthma cigarette. “These are meant to help with chest pain.”

Steve throws it out as soon as he sees a trash can.

Bucky stays with him as he’s examined. There are sick red marks on his stomach and face and Bucky’s face creases with concern. He looks at Steve’s frail body and Steve looks at him. Nurse Carter keeps trying to get Bucky to leave, but Bucky just changes the subject, asking more questions about treatments and only looking at the clock when he thinks Steve isn’t looking.

It lasts past the final bell, and they only walk out of the school when it’s empty. All the sights are visible without the people in the way, and Steve looks at them and counts five places he’s been beat up.

“Sorry you missed math,” Steve says as they pass through the gates and start on the sidewalk.

“How d’you know I had math?”

“Cos _I_ had math.”

Bucky laughs. “That’s okay. Math is my least favourite, anyway.”

There’s a silence, and Bucky fills it again. “So – and you don’t have to answer this – why were those guys beatin’ you up?”

Steve can’t remember the first time he was hit. It was before his long-term memories started developing.

He shrugs. “Cos they’re jerks.”

“Well, duh.”

Steve doesn’t say anything else.

“Does this happen a lot?”

Steve nods.

“That’s not okay.”

“I never said it was.”

Anything else from Bucky on the subject and he’d be overstepping. Steve starts to craft his biting comeback for whatever Bucky says next, telling Bucky that it’s none of his damn business. He just doesn’t know if he’ll have the guts to use it.

“So where do you live?”

“Uh.” Steve quickly changes gear. “Just here on the left.”

“Ah. So you’re gonna leave me on my own for three blocks.”

“’Fraid so.”

They stop outside Steve’s building and he watches as Bucky takes it in. It’s not bad-looking – terraced, sure, but it has three floors. Steve doesn’t tell Bucky that only one of the floors belongs to them.

“This is me.”

“It’s a nice building.”

“Thanks.”

This is the point where it would be polite to invite Bucky in. He can see in Bucky’s eyes that he’s waiting for the invitation, would say yes. But he’d have to explain a lot of things if he did, and they’re not even real friends yet.

Still, Bucky had saved Steve, so he deserves something.

“I’d invite you in, but the place is a mess right now.”

It’s a lame excuse but Bucky just nods and smiles like he believes it. It’s obvious that he doesn’t. If he did, he’d say, _I don’t care about that, you should see my room!_ Or something like that. But he sees that Steve is lying and he knows his place.

Funny. He fills the silences that don’t need to be filled and he’s silent when he shouldn’t be.

“Well, I’ll see ya around,” Steve says, unlocking the door and standing in the doorway.

Bucky puts his hands in his pockets and takes a step backwards into the snow. “Yeah. Maybe we could hang out at school sometime.”

“If we can find each other.”

“Ha, yeah. See ya.”

“Bye.”

Bucky takes another step backwards and Steve closes the door. He stands in the small entrance hall and leans back against the door and counts to thirty before opening the door again.

He steps out and gathers a ball of snow in his hands.

“What are you doing?”

Steve drops the snow as he straightens up. Bucky is still there, leaning against the building with a cigarette between his fingers. He’s smiling at Steve like he’s expecting a funny answer.

“You smoke?” Steve asks, stalling, because he can’t think of an explanation that isn’t the truth.

Bucky just frowns at him, because everyone smokes.

“Were you gonna take that snow indoors?”

He’s not pressuring. He’s not being cruel. He’s not mocking. He just doesn’t think the answer is a serious one.

Steve’s mind is blank. What other reason would there be for him to bring snow indoors? If he refuses to answer, that’s even worse. Bucky could assume it’s something bad, or that Steve doesn’t want to be his friend. And Steve does.

“My mom wanted to see the snow,” is all Steve can think to say.

Bucky’s smile grows in confusion and then his eyes widen a fraction in a form of understanding. He takes a drag from the cigarette and when he’s done the smile is gone.

“Well alright then,” Bucky says, and drops the cigarette on the ground, stepping on it. He flashes Steve a smile, a smile Steve recognises as a common one, one that lines up with all of the features of his face. The back up. The charming straight-A student. The baseball star. The everything-is-okay smile.

Steve gives his version back.

When he gives the snow to his mother she smiles, but she doesn’t try to touch it. She looks right at him but she doesn’t notice the bruise forming on his face. This is how Steve knows that today is a bad day.

He helps her from her chair to her bed again and while she naps, he pushes the snow against his sore cheek. He sits at the table and thinks about how easily Bucky had manoeuvred Steve’s boundaries. He couldn’t have understood what the snow meant, that his mother couldn’t go outside or even open the window without catching a cold that could be fatal. But he’d stopped. Lent Steve his kind silence again, his quiet understanding, the level and delicacy of which would have been expected of old, dear friends, ones who knew each other and what was off limits, not of something so new.

Bucky could sense where the secrets were.

Steve thinks about what secrets Bucky must have of his own, sits and thinks about this for so long that he doesn’t notice the snow melting and dripping down his chest.

* * *

Bucky falls asleep in the bath and dreams that he’s buried alive.

* * *

 

It’s the next day when they see each other again.

Second period before break is Gym. Mr Fury is yelling at them to run faster and throwing dodgeballs at them, and with everyone spread out like that, Steve notices Bucky at the front, jogging along like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Steve, of course, is sitting out. His fatigue alone is enough, let alone everything else.

For a while he watches Bucky. In a moment he’ll wave and let him know they have this class together, too, and they’ll laugh about how they never saw each other, and Steve will have a chance at being his friend outside the nurse’s office and the street, around people where it matters and Bucky could suffer and Steve could benefit. But he knows Bucky can’t see him, so he watches him when he doesn’t know he’s being watched.

And it strikes him that it’s very strange that Bucky is so nice to him. He wonders why this is. You’re nice to people if you want to be their friend. Why would Bucky want to be his friend? He’s got friends, Steve sees, as Bucky wanders over to a group of four boys, all tall with lean muscle like him. He’s confident. He’s smart. Now that he’s paying attention, he notices that Bucky is first in their class and is running for student body president. He’s got everything.

But when Steve waves at him, he runs over immediately.

“Why you sittin’ off?” Bucky asks him, sitting down on the bench next to him. “You don’t like the shorts?”

“Nah, I got my period.”

Bucky laughs, and it’s loud, and people look over, and Steve wonders why Bucky is sitting next to him, but he doesn’t say anything because that would be pathetic. He’s not trying to be self-pitying or feel sorry for himself with this line of thought. He’s just being factual. And it’s a fact that no one wants to be his friend. It’s fine, he doesn’t mind. He’s just curious as to why it’s changing.

“So I was doin’ some more research last night–”

“More comics.”

“Yep. I think I got a good one.”

Steve smiles. “Oh really?”

“Yeah. Okay, so, there’s this little girl, and she comes home real upset. And her mom’s like, what’s wrong? And the girl says, there was a horse in the street, and it fell over, and they had to call a horse doctor. And the mom says, oh no, did the horse die? Cos the little girl’s all upset. And the girl goes,” and Bucky starts laughing pre-emptively, “the girl goes, no, I waited for an hour for the horse doctor to show up, and when he did, it was just a human.”

Steve wants to not laugh. He wants this inside joke to keep going forever. But he can’t help it. In his attempt to keep it in, it turns into a horrible sound, bursting out of him uncontrollably.

Bucky grins and watches him and when Steve looks at him, he looks happier than Steve’s ever seen him.

“I got ya!” Bucky cries, clapping and pointing, all excited. “I got ya! Finally!”

“We’re only 3-2,” Steve says, catching his breath. “Don’t get too excited.”

“So close! I’m gonna get ya. Gonna have to keep doin’ more research I guess…”

Steve smiles and shakes his head.

“Barnes!”

Steve and Bucky turn to see one of Bucky’s friends waving him over.

“What is it?” Bucky shouts back. Steve actually raises his eyebrows at this. He was completely expecting Bucky to just get up and leave. It would have been fine if he had. Societal rules would have had no problem with it. But Bucky’s friends need a good enough reason to get him away from Steve. It seems that Bucky doesn’t really pay much mind to rules.

“Need to know when you’re free for practise next week.”

“Isn’t it just Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday?”

“Nah. Clint can’t do Thursday so we gotta change that one.”

“Dammit Clint, what is it this time?”

“Archery competition,” says the light-haired boy from History class. “Can’t move it. Sorry.”

“Alright, I gotta deal with this,” Bucky says to Steve as he gets up. “You wanna meet me at the gates after school? We can walk together. If ya want.”

“Yeah. Good. I mean… fine.”

“Oh? What was wrong with ‘good’?”

Steve feels himself blushing, and he can’t figure out why. “Don’t want ya thinkin’ I’m _too_ excited. You’re not that great.”

Bucky laughs, the sound surprised and confrontational and open-mouthed. “Okay. Alright. See ya at three.” He flashes Steve his smile and jogs over to his friends again.

The loud sound of Bucky’s laugh vibrates in Steve’s ears for a whole minute. He watches the boy run up and down the field in his vest and shorts, and listens out for the sound to come again.

But it never does. Bucky talks to his friends and lets Fury give him advice on his form and scratches his ass when he thinks no one’s looking, but he doesn’t laugh. Not once. Steve considers the possibility that maybe it’s the reason he’s so keen to be Steve’s friend.

He stops thinking about it because it feels like he’s wrong.

* * *

 

Steve waits outside the gates for Bucky for ten minutes before he shows up, apologising that he had to go get some stuff from his locker. Steve waves his hand and says it’s fine. Because it is. After all, he hadn’t seriously considered the possibility that Bucky wouldn’t show up. He’s too nice.

They walk home and chat for a while about the classes of the day – the math problems they’d been set, the fact that Clint hadn’t known the difference between North and South America. They discuss the history homework, a study into the ways the Great War could have been avoided.

“It’s kind of a weird assignment, don’t you think?” Bucky comments as they walk past the river. They stop for a while and sit on the bank, Bucky skipping stones into the water and Steve watching. “Like, it happened before we were born. Why do we need to know that? I know it’s history class and all, but still.”

“I kinda thought it was to do with the news.”

“The news?”

“You know. The stuff that’s been going on in Germany.”

Bucky gives him a funny look. “I know what’s in the news, but what does that have to do with it?”

Steve shrugs, notices Bucky’s stopped skipping stones. “There’s talk, you know. This guy Hitler, he’s a real bad guy. A lot of people are saying there could be another war.”

He sneaks a peek at Bucky out of the corner of his eye. Bucky’s staring out at the water and thumbing a stone in his hand. His face is blank. He’s thinking.

“Well,” Bucky says eventually. “I’d be fucked. I’m eighteen in two months.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“March tenth. You?”

“Fourth of July.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Well, you’d be fucked too.”

“I’m pretty sure we’d _all_ be fucked if war broke out.”

Bucky laughs a little, and it’s enough to erase the weird tension.

Steve shakes his head, watches Bucky fling a stone, watches it fall flat. Thinks about how they wouldn’t let him in, anyway. But that would be the wrong thing to say now, he knows it.

They walk back to Steve’s shortly after. They stand outside Steve’s door and they both think about yesterday, about the snow.

With it present on his mind, Steve says, “I’m real sorry I can’t invite you in.”

“That’s okay. Hey, you know. If you want. You’re welcome at my house.”

Steve starts smiling immediately, a knee-jerk reaction to being wanted. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. My mom always makes too much food. My sister’s kind of annoying, though.”

Steve laughs, something lighting up inside him, something fluttering in his stomach. Is he nervous? “That sounds great.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.” Bucky grins, and it’s not his flashy smile. It’s wonkier, it’s smaller, it’s better.

“Lemme go tell my mom.”

“Sure.”

Steve lets himself into the building and climbs slowly up the single flight of stairs to the first floor. He unlocks the door and shouts, “Ma! I’m home!”

“My darling son,” Sarah’s voice carries through the hall, “just in time.”

She presents him with a scarf. He holds it up. It’s ten inches long.

“You really think I’m this little?”

“Scarves are more difficult to make than you’d think.”

“Harder than socks?”

“Surprisingly, yes. For me, at least.”

He kisses her on the cheek and sits down next to her. “Is it alright if I go round my friend’s house?”

This is the first time this has ever happened. Sarah hides her surprise well. “Your friend? Who?”

“His name is Bucky.”

“That’s not a name.”

“It’s a nickname. His name is James.”

“That’s a much nicer name than Bucky.”

“So is it okay?”

“Of course.” Sarah smiles at him and pats him on the head. “You’re too popular for your own good.”

“I’m really not.”

“Alright. You’re too popular for _my_ own good. I wanted some tea.”

“You know I’d make it, but he’s waitin’ for me downstairs.”

She looks forlornly at the kettle where it sits on the stove. “I’ll manage. Have fun. When will you be home?”

“I dunno. When do you want me home?”

“Anytime before eight.”

“Thanks, ma.” He kisses her again and picks up his bag. He turns before leaving and sees her start her knitting up again. She looks sad. Steve wishes he hadn’t seen it.

* * *

Bucky’s house isn’t big, or fancy. It’s regular sized, and the paint is chipping, and there’s too much exposed brick for it to be deliberate. It’s cold inside and the floorboards creak. But it’s the nicest house Steve has ever been in.

His mom gives Steve a hug. Bucky yells, “Mom! Leave him alone!” but Steve doesn’t mind, laughing and patting her on the back and saying, “Hi. Nice to meet you. I’m Steve.”

His sister scowls at him and says, “Don’t go in my room.”

“Why would he go in your room, Rebecca?” Bucky asks her, tone sharp and annoyed, a voice Steve’s never heard him use before.

“I’ve got some good records.”

“I won’t go in your room,” Steve tells her.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

She loves him after that.

Bucky’s mom tells them dinner will be ready at six thirty, and Bucky says they’ll be in his room. He leads Steve up the stairs and into the first door on the left.

“So this is my room. It’s kinda messy, sorry.”

Steve takes in the sports trophies, the music posters, the overflowing dresser and the piles of comics and the group photos so crowded that Steve can’t find Bucky’s face. It’s everything Steve had imagined life would be without hardship. Or at least, the specific brand of hardship that Steve’s had to endure.

“I like it,” Steve says, which is a bit of an understatement.

They sit on Bucky’s bed and he puts a record on, something jazzy Steve’s never heard before. They could just sit there and listen. It would be normal for them to sit there and listen to the music without talking.

Bucky says, “So you sent off any college applications yet?”

Steve groans. “Don’t we get enough of this from Coulson?”

“I’m just curious.”

“Yeah, I have. NYU and Yale.”

“Keepin’ it close to home, huh?”

“Close enough. What about you?”

“All of ‘em.”

“All of them? Are you kidding me?”

Bucky nods, picking at his sheets like it’s no big deal.

“How’d’you find the time to write all those essays?”

Bucky shrugs. “Wanted to make sure I’d get in, is all.”

Steve thinks he senses a secret. He’s about to change the subject just in case, when Bucky says, “No one in my family ever went to college before. I wanted to… to do that, to be the first. Not as like, an ego thing. I just thought it’d be a good thing.”

Bucky’s grades, his concentration, his determination, all line up in Steve’s head.

“And I want that for Rebecca, too, you know. I want her to know that there are options for her.”

Steve nods, unsure what to say. He remembers the tension by the river earlier and says, “Well, I’m not sure you’ll get in anywhere anyway. I think most colleges require thirty As, and I’m pretty sure you only have twenty-nine.”

Bucky laughs. It works. “Yeah, I’m a bit of a nerd. But I actually got some acceptances back already. Early admission.”

“That’s great!” Steve beams, genuinely happy for his new friend. “That’s so great.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, smiling back, clearly happy at Steve’s reaction. He nods some more and says, thoughtfully, “There better not be a war. I have too many plans.”

They eat dinner and Steve tells Bucky’s mom a hundred times that it’s the best damn chicken he’s ever had, and Bucky tells him to stop or his mom’ll get cocky, and Rebecca tells Bucky to shut up, and Bucky’s mom tells her not to talk like that, and Bucky says that she’s only saying that because they have company, and Steve laughs and laughs and Bucky smiles at him.

Steve tells Bucky’s mom how it’s just his mom and him since his dad died, and she nods and tells him how her husband had died from his injuries just after Rebecca was born, a few years after the war, and they tell a story about him setting himself on fire in a pub and they all smile and it’s strange, how living his memory seems to be, how they talk about him like he’s just gone away for a little while. The memories aren’t tinged with sadness and remaining grief like it is when Sarah talks about Joseph.

Bucky walks Steve home, because of course he does. He’s nice. He’s too nice.

Steve’s watch says it’s ten to eight when they start walking, so he should arrive just a little after eight. His mom won’t mind. He assumes. He’s never been round a friend’s house before, so there isn’t really a precedent. He feels uncomfortable being away from his mother for so long in case she needs him. It’s only been three hours, he tells himself. Nothing that bad can happen in three hours. Which is a lie, but it makes him feel a little calmer.

When they stop outside Steve’s door, he feels like they haven’t talked enough to say goodbye.

“I got another one for ya,” Steve says, and Bucky groans. “What?”

“We’re 3-2. If you get me laughin’ I’m not gonna stand a chance.”

“Too late. Whaddaya say to a dinosaur to ask it to dinner?”

“What kind of situation would you ever need to ask a dinosaur to dinner?”

“That’s not what I asked you!”

“Have we gone back in time forty million years? And I’ve got my eye on a pretty young stegosaurus? Cos I gotta tell ya, that ain’t exactly my type.”

“Bucky!”

“Fine, I don’t know. What do you say to a dinosaur to ask it to dinner.”

“Tea, Rex?”

Bucky pushes Steve so hard he almost falls over, both of them laughing like crazy. “That’s the worst fuckin’ joke I’ve ever heard! God! That makes me wanna punch ya!”

“That’s how you know it’s a good joke. If you make someone violent.”

Bucky’s laugh peters into a grin and he shoves his hands in his pockets, curving his shoulders up. He looks back at Steve and starts laughing all over again.

It’s amazing to watch him laugh and be happy. Steve feels honoured that he’s a part of it. Bucky has burdened him with the glorious purpose of supplying that laugh and Steve won’t let him down. It feels complicated and meaningful but Steve doesn’t know a lot about friendships. Maybe all friendships feel this way, begin this way.

Bucky’s still on his cloud and Steve feels like he can ask.

“Why does it work so well with you?”

“What?”

“Laughing. I only said that thing when we met, about it helping, cos I couldn’t think of anythin’ else to say. It wasn’t meant to work, but it did, and it does. How do you think that is?”  
  
Steve’s tone was casual and he wasn’t expecting Bucky’s face to change the way it does. He looks embarrassed. Observed.

“I thought it worked for you too.”

“It does sometimes. Not always.”

“Are you trynna analyse me?” Bucky asks. He sounds mad. Mad and suddenly tired. His hands come out of his pockets and his arms fold across his chest. He leans against the wall like it’s his spine.

“No! I just wondered, is all.”

Bucky stares at Steve and Steve can see him thinking behind his grey eyes. He lets out a long breath, like a concede, and shakes his head. “Hell, I don’t know. I’m not a psychiatrist.”

Steve wants to ask why he said that, _do you think it’s something like that, something that would need a psychiatrist?_ But then, that would be trying to analyse him.

“Well, I’ll keep tryin’, anyway.”

“What?”

“To make you laugh. If it works.”

This doesn’t make Bucky smile like Steve thought it would. He just stares at him again and his mind works.

“Are _you_ trynna analyse _me?”_

“Fuck off,” Bucky says, and slaps Steve on the arm. Steve laughs, and Bucky laughs, and they both feel better at the same time.

Sarah is asleep at the table when Steve gets there. The clock reads ten past eight. Guilt fills every part of him and he has tears in his eyes when he wakes his mother for fear that she’ll be disappointed in him. But she smiles and rubs her eyes and asks him, “Did you have fun with your friend?”

“Yeah. It was good. Great, actually.”

Sarah smiles and pats his arm. “Good. Now make me some dinner, if you have the time in your busy schedule.”

Steve makes her an omelette and some tea and tells her all about Bucky’s family and Bucky’s house and Bucky’s room and Bucky. He doesn’t tell her that he thinks he means something to Bucky, serves a purpose, and that it makes him happy and sad at the same time. He tells her what they ate and how Rebecca almost got a pea stuck up her nose. He doesn’t tell her that he wants to go back.

When she’s ready to go back to sleep, he helps her over to the bed and reads from her favourite poetry book, a collection of poems by Thomas Wyatt. He struggles around the Middle English and Sarah listens to him stop and start and falls asleep in between the words.

* * *

Bucky lies on his stomach in bed and stares at his pillow until the morning light starts to seep into the corners of his eyes and he goes downstairs and has his coffee with his family and smiles with his teeth and everything is okay.

* * *

Steve has his first friend that isn’t his mom. He doesn’t know how friendships are supposed to go, but he thinks he’s doing okay.

Friday night, Bucky invites Steve to a party.

“It’s not a party. It’s just a few of us hanging out.”

“Alright.”

“I’m going to a party,” he tells his mom.

_Party_ sounds better because it has so much meaning.

“Will there be alcohol?”

“I dunno. I didn’t ask.”

“Don’t drink it if there is.”

“I’ll try.”

“Unless they say they’ll stop being friends with you if you don’t drink it.”

“Let them pressure me to fit in. Got it.”

“Are you sleeping over?”

“Yeah.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Eight. Is that okay?”

“That’s fine. You’d better get started on dinner, though. Can’t have you drinking on an empty stomach, young man.”

Bucky picks him up at eight. Steve doesn’t even know how to drive and Bucky’s got a car.

“It’s not my car. It’s my mom’s. I’m not even insured, so don’t tell anyone.”

“Sure. I won’t tell all those police officers I’m buddies with.”

Bucky laughs and it sounds different in such a small space. Steve thinks he hears an echo, but it might just be the ringing in his ears.

The car is a piece of junk and doesn’t start until the third time. Bucky pulls out and starts driving and doesn’t take his eyes off the road once, and tells Steve that his dad had built the car out of scraps before he’d died. They hardly ever drive it cos gas is so expensive, but you can’t get to Scott’s house without driving.

Scott. Natasha. Sam. These are Bucky’s friends from the other high school, the one across town. Steve almost asks, _do you think they’ll like me?_ But he and Bucky aren’t quite there yet. Bucky would take it as a character trait, he’d label Steve as insecure or nervous, wouldn’t yet take it as Steve just being a person, just sharing his thoughts and filling the silence the way Bucky does, not because he has to or needs an answer but because he wants to hear Bucky’s reply, even if it’s not helpful, because they’re friends and this is friendship, he thinks.

Steve doesn’t know when they’ll get to the point where they see each other that way, but he hopes it’s soon, because he’s tired of thinking before speaking.

They’re driving for about a half hour. Bucky’s pretty good, not that Steve knows anything about it. He keeps pressing a pedal with his left foot and moving this little lever thing that’s down by the hand brake. That must be the stick shift. He’s heard on the radio that that’s a hard thing to learn, so he assumes Bucky’s pretty good.

“This would be a good place for you to murder me,” Steve says as the streetlights stop and they turn onto a dark and isolated road.

Bucky snorts. “Why isn’t it a good place for you to murder _me?_ ”

“I would never do that to you.”

“You crack me up, you know that?”

“I’ve noticed. So tell me about your friends. How did you meet them?”

Bucky’s hand slips down, he moves the lever from 5 to 4 as they slow down a little, rounding a corner. Once they’re round, he moves it back. “Went to the same middle school. We moved when I was about to start high school, my family, but we kept hanging out, me and my friends. It just kind of stuck.”

“You ever feel left out? Them all going to school together without you?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and looks towards Steve out of the corner of his eye. It’s more of a gesture; he doesn’t break concentration enough to actually look at Steve. “Jeez, that’s kind of a bummer of a question.”

“I was just wonderin’ what kinda dynamic I’m steppin’ into. I don’t wanna be in the middle of some awkward reunion.”

“Well, you shoulda asked that before you got in the car, then.”

Steve smiles. He doesn’t take his eyes off Bucky’s face the whole trip because he knows Bucky can’t see him and can’t look back. “I’m gonna take that as a yes.”

“Yes to your question?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, you shouldn’t. We hang all the time. I’m the only one with a car so they kinda need me.”

“Was that a joke?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are they funny?”

“Why would you ask me that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re an asshole.” Bucky reaches an arm out blindly to slap him. He lands one on Steve’s forearm. All the hairs stand on end. Which is weird. Bucky didn’t hit him that hard.

“Welcome to mi casa!” Scott announces when he opens the door to his house. It’s the kind of house you have parties in (Steve assumes). It’s the kind of house where the parents are always out of town (Steve assumes).

“You must be Steve.” He holds a hand out for Steve to shake, but yanks it away before Steve can reach it. “Too slow! Ha ha. I came up with that one yesterday. You can use it. But you have to credit me. Otherwise I’ll sue you. Just kidding! Come on in!”

“Question answered,” Steve mutters to Bucky, “they ain’t funny.” Bucky’s laugh is loud, and echoes. He’s sure about this echo.

Scott is average height and to see him not smiling would make Steve very uncomfortable. Natasha is short and her hair looks like it’s on fire and she looks like she’s ready to both party and fall asleep. Sam is tall – not as tall as Bucky – and is clearly done with everyone’s bullshit.

“Put on something good,” Natasha says to Scott. There’s something in her accent that he doesn’t recognise, something European.

 Jimmie Lunceford starts playing.

“I said something _good!_ ”

“This is good!” Scott starts shaking his hips before singing at the top of his lungs, “It ain’t whatcha do, it’s the way that ya do it! That’s what gets results!”

Bucky and Sam make eye contact. Sam shakes his head slowly, and Bucky grins.

Natasha changes the song to something Steve doesn’t recognise, something less jazzy – “jazz is hedonistic and I’m a nihilist” – and they sit in a circle in Scott’s living room and pass the bottle around.

When it comes to Steve, Bucky leans over and whispers, “You don’t gotta. I won’t think you’re lame or anythin’.”

Steve thinks about how the drinking age is eighteen so he’ll be able to do it as much as he wants in six months, anyway. And there’s something safe about the circle. The room is dark and there’s a lot of carpet and he feels like it would be fine if something went wrong.

He drinks. And he coughs.

They laugh, but not in a mean way.

He drinks again, and it burns, but he doesn’t cough. It tastes terrible. Will it always taste terrible? He wonders how adults drink it so easily. Steve could drink orange soda all day, but he could only have so much alcohol, he thinks. That’s probably why they make it so strong, so you don’t have to be drinking it for very long.

“So Steve,” Natasha says, fixing him with her stare and smiling like she’s going to ask him something inappropriate. But she just asks, “Tell us about yourself a little. What are you into?”

Has there ever been a good answer to this question?

Steve shrugs. “Not a lot to tell. I like the radio and I like books.”

“What kinda books?”

“All books.”

“You can’t like all books.” 

“I do.”

“You’ve liked every book you’ve ever read?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s that work?”

“I dunno. I just never finished a book wishing I hadn’t bothered reading it. I think it’s all worthwhile. It’s not like people half-ass write a book. There’s always a lot in there that ya just gotta think about for a while before you get it.”

“That’s very patient of you.”

Steve shrugs again.

“I think you’re probably a writer, no?”

Steve laughs. “No, not me.”

“Why’d you laugh? Why’d you laugh at that?”

“It’s just a funny thought. I couldn’t be a writer."

“Why not?”

“I just like talkin’ too much.”

She laughs at that. Steve laughs too, and Scott grins, and Sam’s scowl lessens.

They’re all laughing, but it feels hollow, like it’s missing something. Like how a barbershop quartet feels incomplete without the bass singer.

With this, Steve notices Bucky has been very silent.

“Hey, you alright?”

Bucky’s sitting in a pocket of darkness. The outline of his form is visible, and the colour of his skin, but not much else. He could be crying or laughing and Steve wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. It doesn’t look like he’s doing either, though.

Sam and Natasha start in on Scott for his ridiculous red and black outfit, and Bucky leans over into Bucky’s personal space. It smells like wine and cigarettes, and Steve stops for a second because it’s too adult a smell for this boy and his borrowed car and his cotton shirts that his mom irons.

“Bucky? You there?”

Bucky laughs. It’s wrong.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“This is what drunk people are like. Now ya know.”

Steve looks around them. The others are busy with their torment and inside jokes and old friendship, so Steve stands and holds out his hands to Bucky. Bucky holds out his hands. In his left one is the bottle of wine. It’s empty.

Steve puts it on the floor and Bucky gets up on his own.

“We’re just gonna go smoke,” Steve says to the others. They wave him off.

Steve and Bucky sit on the windowsill outside the front of Scott’s house. In the light from inside the house and the full moon, Bucky’s face is visible again. He looks like Bucky, and Steve hardly knows him, but he doesn’t look like Bucky, too.

Bucky lights up a cigarette and offers one to Steve. Steve refuses. There’s just somethin’ about them that makes him cough and makes it hard to breathe. Even though the scientists say the effect should be the opposite.

“How’dya like my friends?” Bucky asks, and Steve starts to answer, but Bucky says, “They like you.”

“That’s good." 

“You like ‘em too?”

“Yeah, they’re great.”

“They can be funny sometimes, huh?”

“Sure.”

Even the smoke from Bucky’s mouth is making Steve light headed. He can deal with it for now, but maybe he’ll let Bucky know tomorrow that he’d prefer if he didn’t smoke around him. Tomorrow, not right now.

There’s something burning inside everything that Bucky is. Steve can feel the secret like it’s hot on his hands. It’s inside his kindness and his need for Steve to make him laugh and his drinking and his easy charm and his hard work and his late, late nights. And it’s standing here in front of him, waiting to be unwrapped. Steve knows that he could unwrap it if he wanted to. Just the right question.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky slides new information into Steve’s train of thought. “I didn’t mean to bring this kinda stuff on you.” His voice is quiet and it takes him a while to say. Steve thinks that if this is a drunk person, he doesn’t want to see the drunk version of himself.

It seems like Bucky is waiting for him. Maybe the secret is wrapped because it’s a gift.

“What kinda stuff?”

“I didn’t mean to get drunk, but it always happens, every opportunity I get I just use it til there’s nothin’ left.”

Steve thinks for a moment that maybe Bucky’s just drinking because it’s illegal and it’s new. Just being a kid and getting sad at the results. Of course, the theory doesn’t fit the evidence, but it’s what Bucky’s trying to sell him.

“Why?" 

Bucky scoffs and throws his cigarette on the ground. “Shut up.”

“Alright.”

A silence. It’s cold and Steve starts shivering.

“Are you mad at me?”

“No, why would I be mad at you?”

Bucky chews on his lip. “This is a weird situation.”

“It’s fine. It’s an okay situation.”

“I was gonna have fun with all my friends. I don’t know why I’m like this.”

He realises his cigarette is still burning on the ground and lunges forwards to step on it. Steve catches him – barely – and props him back up against the window. “There ya go.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, pal." 

Bucky is staring at him. Steve can’t look at it. He starts to blush. “Let’s get you to bed, huh?”

They find the spare bedroom with the two twin beds pushed on either wall. Steve tells Bucky to take off his shoes but Bucky just sits on the bed and watches as Steve takes them off himself, his big grey eyes just sitting there on his face. Steve considers taking off Bucky’s socks, too, but that seems very intimate. Too much skin contact.

“Lie down,” Steve tells him as he gets into his own bed.

“Tell me a joke." 

“You think that’ll work?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’. Lie down.”

Bucky lies down. “Tell me the one about the dinosaur again.”

“How do you ask a dinosaur to dinner?" 

Bucky starts laughing. “Tea, Rex?”

“You got it.”

“I love that.”

“You hated it earlier.”

“Oh yeah.”

Steve turns off the lamp and they’re closing their eyes whether they want to or not. It’s all just words and sounds now. 

“God, I’m such an idiot, I can’t keep my stupid mouth shut. I don’t know you.”

It would sting if it weren’t true.

“Do you wanna?” Steve asks.

“Wanna know you?”

“Yeah. Cos you can, if you want, but do you wanna?”

“I think so. But how can you know that? Whether you wanna know someone before you know ‘em?" 

Steve breathes a small laugh at Bucky’s drunken philosophy. “I dunno. Do you wanna give it a try?”

“Yeah.” A long, long pause and Bucky’s closed eyes and his fists balled in the sheets. “Do you?”

“Yeah.”

“I think you could be good for me, Steve Rogers.”

Steve thinks about how maybe that’s not what he wants to be.

* * *

Bucky does not dream. Either that, or his dream is pitch black and Steve’s breathing.

* * *

In the morning, Steve wakes late. He can feel that he’s woken too late. The light doesn’t feel new and the bed next to him is made and cold.

He stares at the ceiling for a while. He’d had his first alcoholic drink and had not had a second. He’d met new people and gone to a _party_ and slept over. He is waking in a bed that is not his own and is more comfortable than his own has ever been.

A smile appears on his sleepy face until he remembers Bucky, old-faced and sad, quiet and too honest and so complicated. More complicated than Steve had thought. Bucky seemed so simple when they met, so fresh and bright and strong with an ironed shirt and an intolerance for pain. How naïve Steve was to file him away as happy and clean.

He thinks briefly about how to handle the situation. Bucky will be hungover and embarrassed and apologetic, probably. He’s so nice. Steve decides that when Bucky asks him to pretend like nothing ever happened, Steve will agree.

When he rises and makes his way down the stairs, Bucky is there.

He is not what Steve expected. He is bounding up the stairs in a form of youth Steve has heard of but never seen, where your muscles are strong and you have all the energy in the world.

Bucky stops halfway up and stares at Steve. For a moment Steve sees hesitation, a little confusion that could easily be something else, for Steve hardly knows Bucky’s face yet. Then Bucky grins and runs past him.

“Mornin’, sleepyhead.”

“Uh, mornin’,” Steve says, but by the time he looks over his shoulder, Bucky’s in the bathroom and the door is closed.

He wanders down to the kitchen, confused and concerned.

Natasha and Sam are sitting at the table, Scott standing at the stove, cracking some eggs. “Morning,” Natasha says as he sits down.

“Good morning.” 

“Want some eggs?” Scott asks.

“Sure.”

Scott sprinkles some pepper onto the scrambled eggs with a flourish and slides them onto four plates, dishing them out between them.

“What time is it?” Steve asks, before trying the eggs. They’re the best he’s ever had. He wants to tell Scott that, but he doesn’t think he could keep the surprise out of his voice, so he doesn’t mention it.

“Eleven thirty,” Natasha tells him. “We’re gonna head back around quarter to twelve. Bucky just went to take a quick shower. That okay?”

“That’s fine.” Steve doesn’t tell her that his mother will have gone without breakfast without him there to make it. Standing for long periods of time isn’t really something she can do these days.

The subject of Bucky re-enters his mind with Nat’s comment. He considers asking Bucky’s friends about him, expressing his concern, but one, it’s not his to tell, and two, there’s almost definitely a code that would mean Bucky’s friends would tell Steve nothing and tattle to Bucky about Steve’s questions immediately.

Still, he considers it briefly while Bucky’s in the shower. But he just doesn’t know where to start. 

“Alright, you guys good to go?”

Bucky’s voice comes from behind him and he turns to see him scrubbed clean, face shiny and hair damp, smiling so bright it’s like he’s plugged into an outlet.

They pile into Bucky’s car. Sam calls shotgun. Bucky says, “You gotta let Steve sit up front, he’s the guest.” Steve says, “Bucky, that’s not how shotgun works.” Sam pats him on the back. Scott racks with loud sobs when they leave, leaning out the front door to wave his handkerchief as the car drives away.

“I’m gonna drop off Sam and Nat first cos they live near here, that okay?” Bucky calls back to Steve as they set out.

“That’s fine.”

“So,” Natasha says, turning to Steve in the backseat with her sly smile on again. “Steve. How was your first drink?”

“It was fine.”

“I noticed you didn’t drink much.”

“It tastes bad.”

Natasha laughs, at him, but not unkind. “That doesn’t go away, sadly.”

“Sam didn’t drink either." 

“He’s very healthy.”

“How come?”

“He’s a dancer. They have to be in peak health at all times. It’s brutal.”

Steve looks at the brooding, silent and tough boy in the front seat. “A dancer?”

“Uh huh,” Sam says.

“That’s unexpected.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Any good?”

“The best,” Natasha tells him, leaning in and patting his knee. “You should see his Russian ballet. One of the best I’ve seen, and that’s something.”

Steve finally places her accent, her pale skin, her narrow features.

“You’re from Russia?”

“Yes!” She laughs again. “You didn’t notice?”

“I ain’t ever heard anybody from Russia before.”

“Glad to be your first,” she says. “So, we’re all a bunch of outcasts here, in this bunch, huh? Everyone thinks I’m a damn communist.”

“What do you mean? Outcasts?”

“Well, you met Scott, right? That guy’s so wacky, he’s lucky we’re still friends with him.”

“No, I mean.” Steve starts to laugh a little, because of how funny it is to him. “Outcast? Bucky’s like, the most popular guy in school. He’s running for student body president. He’s on the baseball team.”

Steve doesn’t notice until he stops talking that the car has gone silent around him. Natasha is staring at the back of Bucky’s head.

“Bucky,” she whispers. 

Bucky doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, just keeps his eyes on the road as they pull into a driveway. Steve gets the strong feeling that everyone in this car knows something he doesn’t.

“I was just talking about me and Sam, and Scott,” Natasha says, flashing Steve a smile that reminds him of Bucky’s. “Guess I forgot about Bucky.” She ruffles Bucky’s hair, but not even this makes him look round. 

Sam gets out of the car. They drive for another five minutes, and then Natasha gets out, patting Steve’s hand and giving him another smile before she does.

They watch her walk into the house and Bucky says, “You can get in the front, if you want, we have about ten minutes left to drive.”

Steve climbs into the passenger seat. He tries not to look at Bucky until they’re driving again and Bucky can’t look back. Bucky’s face is set and unreadable.

There’s tension. Steve wants to make a joke. But he can’t think of one. Maybe this is tension they need to sit in, that he shouldn’t try and break.

After five minutes of silence, Steve breaks and says, “Bucky.”

Bucky shakes his head. “One more minute.”

A minute later, Bucky says, “What happened last night?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Not much.”

This makes sense, with his positive attitude and energy this morning.

Steve takes a breath and lets it out, the sound acting as a sign that he’s thinking. “Well, you got pretty wasted, pretty fast. We went outside, and we talked about some stuff, and then we went to bed.”

“What did we talk about?”

“You said… you didn’t want to put this all on me, or something like that. And then you said you didn’t really know me, and that you wanted to, and I said I wanted to know you too. And then…”

_You could be good for me, Steve Rogers._

“We went to sleep.”

If Bucky senses his hesitation, he doesn’t say anything. Trees turn into streetlights as they pass from the suburbs to downtown, and Bucky’s right hand leaves the steering wheel for the first time to push back his hair. His hand slides all the way back over his head, down to his neck, and rests there for a moment before returning to the wheel when a corner comes up.

“Did you mean that? That you want to know me?”

“Of course.”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Yeah.”

“You can’t tell anyone. Not even your mom.”

“Okay.”

“I gotta know I can trust you with this.” Bucky’s voice is calm and reasoned.

“You can.”

They arrive outside Steve’s house and Bucky parks on the side of the road. He turns the engine off, tries to turn and look at Steve in the car, but it’s hard, his chair is further forwards than Steve’s to reach the pedals. But he doesn’t get out of the car.

His hands slide up and down the steering wheel.

“You don’t have to tell me." 

“No, I mean. If we’re friends, I have to tell you… I don’t have a lot of friends." 

“But you’re the most popular guy in school.”

“Those guys ain’t my friends. They’re my team mates, or my classmates, or people who’ll vote for me. They ain’t my friends. I gotta choose my friends carefully.”

Steve really wishes Bucky was looking at him. “Do you wanna get out of the car?” 

“No. This is serious.”

So serious they can’t talk about it on an empty street? But then, Steve thinks, maybe it’s something other people can’t hear. Maybe it’s not just a secret from other people but from the law.

“I don’t go with girls,” Bucky says, almost whispering. His palms tap against the steering wheel. “I have before. I’ve kissed lots of girls, but I don’t do that anymore. ‘Cos I… don’t like girls that way.”

Steve opens his mouth to tell Bucky that he doesn’t much like girls that way, either, finds men’s obsession with attaining them a bit overt, that it’s not the end of the world if he has other priorities.

“I like boys.”

The words die in Steve’s throat. Bucky has just broken the law.

“Are you sure?” Steve asks, for some reason.

Bucky laughs, for some reason. “That’s a reaction I’ve never heard before. Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Why are you tellin’ me this?”

“You said you wanted to know.”

“I did. I do. But you just… you’re trustin’ me with your life. Why?”

“Cos I wanna be your friend. And I can’t lie and pretend I ain’t who I am around my friends. I already have to do it everyday.”

“You really wanna be my friend?”

Bucky laughs again. “You’re so weird.”

“What?”

“You’re not surprised? You’re not angry or nothin’?”

“I’m not anything.”

Bucky inhales like he’s going to laugh again, but he just holds it inside and cranes his neck round to look at Steve. His gaze trails up and down Steve’s face, checking his expression. It feels important, so Steve lets him. He looks at Bucky’s eyes until they’re done.

“So we’re friends?” Steve asks.

Bucky finally smiles. It’s very small, like a twitch of the mouth but held still. Steve allows himself a look at it – for some reason he tells himself never to look at Bucky’s mouth. The tiny smile breaks his heart in a tiny way.

“We’re friends.”

Now that they’re friends, Steve asks, “So is that what last night was about?”

“What about last night?”

“When you said you didn’t want to put it all on me. And when you got wasted, and when you…” He can’t put into words the feeling he’d gotten, and even if he could, he wouldn’t say it to Bucky right now. “Just, all of it.”

Bucky turns back towards the windscreen and puts his hands on the wheel again. “Yeah. That was it.”

He starts the engine, but he doesn’t tell Steve to get out, so Steve doesn’t, watches Bucky rub his thumb on the wheel and stare at the graffiti on the buildings on Steve’s street.

It should make sense. The theory that he’s been given, that he’s being fed. That Bucky got drunk and tried to tell Steve this secret and didn’t want to burden him with it. But that’s not how it was now; it’s a gift, it’s trust, it’s a promise, it’s vulnerable and good. It’s not a burden. So what would be?

Again, the theory makes sense but the evidence doesn’t fit. Bucky’s a story but there are too many chapters. He’s the moon when it’s crescent; you feel like you can see the whole thing up there, even though the darkness is telling you you’re wrong.

Steve squints at the night sky that is Bucky and tries to see the dark side, tries to see what he can’t see, the wrong that’s buried somewhere inside.

“I should go.”

When Steve enters, Sarah is reading in bed.

“My darling son. For lunch, may I please have a horse?”

“I’m sorry, something came up. I wanted to be back earlier.”

“It’s fine, my love. You had fun?”

“Yeah.”

“Then it’s fine.”

“So, a horse?”

“A ham sandwich will do.”

Steve tells her all about it and his new acquaintances – he hesitates to call Bucky’s friends his friends when Bucky himself has just gained the title – even telling her about his first drink.

“What was it?”

“Wine.”

“What colour?”

“Red.”

“That’s why you didn’t like it. Red wine is disgusting.”

“White wine is better?”

“It doesn’t taste like old vinegar, that’s for sure.”

They laugh and they eat ham sandwiches and they read the old joke book for the eighth time and Steve brings some snow inside and Sarah stares at it in her hands until it melts and then wipes her hands on Steve’s face and he shoves her (lightly) and they listen to the radio with their arms around each other, the window closed but the curtains open.

* * *

Bucky gets home and eats some cold cuts and goes into his room and turns off the light and closes the curtains and lies down with his pillow over his face and listens to his sister and his mom giggle at something downstairs and he tries to think about everything that’s happened but it’s already fading from his memory like the night before so he just closes his eyes and wishes but does not pray.

* * *

Monday comes around. Steve wakes up and makes his mom breakfast and makes her a lunch and wraps it in foil and leaves it on the table where she can reach it later. He leaves the house with his backpack on one shoulder and walks the twenty minutes to school.

He feels his chest start to hurt as soon as he starts walking, but he just slows down. He’s five minutes late.

At lunch, he does his usual thing of sitting on the baseball field with his food and a book and glancing at his watch every few pages to tell him when to go back in. He picks a spot over by the trees, where the ground isn’t soaked through from the snow.

He’s five pages and ten minutes in when a shadow appears over the page. Steve puts his bookmark in and closes the book before looking up.

“Room for one more?”

“Sure.”

Bucky sits down next to him under the tree.

“You’re not hanging with your baseball friends?”

“They’re not my friends.”

“So dramatic.”

“Okay, some of them are.”

“You done any more research?”

“What? Oh. Nope. Nothin’ you haven’t read, anyway.”

Again, ridiculous pride swells in Steve. Why does it matter if Bucky thinks he’s well read?

It occurs to him as he looks across the field – one that is meant to be for all Gym classes but is only really used for baseball – that they haven’t hung out at school before. This is now a public friendship. In the same way as he wanted to go to a _party,_ a part of Steve revels in the fact that he’s being seen with Bucky. He knows it’ll help his social standing. This shouldn’t matter to him. He hates that it does, even if it’s not an important part of him.

“You wanna come over again after school?”

Steve can’t say yes fast enough.

* * *

Bucky’s house on the Monday afternoon is full of light and very cold.

“Do you want anythin’ to eat?” Bucky asks him in the empty kitchen, his mom and sister off at the store.

“What ya got?”

“Bread. Wait, it’s mouldy. An apple. That’s mouldy too. I can see now why my family is at the store.”

Steve smirks and they sit down at the table. For a moment it feels like the house belongs to Bucky – his photos on the fridge, his easy comfort in his own home. Steve sees him as a successful adult with his charm and his constant capability, sees it so clearly in Bucky’s future. He wonders why he’s never seen his own future that way.

“What are you thinking about?”

This is a question Bucky has never asked Steve before. Maybe on purpose – maybe Bucky is being his careful self. But if he sees when Steve is affected he should see it now, and yet he still asks.

Steve shrugs at Bucky’s soft frown. “Nothin’ much.”

Bucky waits.

Steve is thinking about the only memory of his father that he has. Sitting at the kitchen table in their old house and his father cutting up his chicken and trying to feed it to him, Steve refusing and saying that he’s too old for that kind of thing. Steve doesn’t remember how old he was, doesn’t know if he was three, or five, or one. His father had laughed and said that he was forty and he would have loved someone cutting his chicken for him. Then his mother had come in and the memory blurs to an end.

When he is in Bucky’s house it is like it’s his own. Being surrounded by the regular family and the possessions and the two storeys – he doesn’t exactly fit in, but he feels at home.

Bucky keeps staring at him, so he says, “Your house is bigger than mine.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Bucky gets up to get himself some water and Steve considers his words. Passive aggressive? Or meaningless?

After dinner he goes home to fetch his things to sleep over at Bucky’s. He makes his mom some food and she kisses him on the top of his head and tells him he’s so popular now that one of these days, Bing Crosby is going to trip _him_ over.

“How would you feel about me inviting him over?” he asks his mom just before he leaves.

Sarah raises her eyebrows, surprised. “I would be fine with it. Of course I would.”

Her surprise at him wanting to introduce her to his friend plagues him the whole walk back to Bucky’s.

Up in Bucky’s room again. Bucky rolls out a sleeping bag on the floor and Steve walks towards it, but Bucky slides himself into it, shuffling his hips to get all the way in.

“What are you doing?”

Bucky flops his head to the right, lying prostrate on the floor. “It’s only polite.”

“I don’t wanna make you sleep on the floor.”

“Well, too bad, Stevie, I’m already down here.”

Steve laughs. It bursts out of him like a sneeze.

“What?”

“What did you just call me?”

“I dunno. I don’t remember.”

“You called me Stevie.”

“So? I’ve called you that before.”

“No you haven’t.”

Bucky screws up his face. It takes a moment for Steve to translate his features, as he’s never seen the look on his friend before: he’s embarrassed.

“Whatever,” Bucky mumbles. “Get into bed before my mom comes in.”

“Your mom’s coming in?”

“No, but you’re makin’ me uncomfortable standin’ there, so if you don’t get into bed I’m gonna go get her to come yell at you ‘til you do.”

Steve climbs into Bucky’s bed, feeling a little guilty at putting Bucky out, but feeling mostly relieved. If he’d slept on the floor, no telling the state his body would be in when he woke up. Maybe Bucky had sensed this, too. He must think all the time, about everything, to be as considerate as he is.

“What ya thinkin’ about?” Steve asks Bucky, and Bucky snorts a laugh.

“You’re a smartass.”

“I’m not making fun. If that’s a thing we ask each other now, I wanna know what you’re thinkin’ about.”

“I’m thinkin’ you’re a smartass.”

Bucky shuffles half way out of the sleeping bag and turns off his light. It’s only ten o’clock, but the light from the street means they can still see each other.

Steve watches Bucky pick at the slippery lining of the sleeping bag and unbutton the cuffs of his pyjama shirt. “I was thinkin’ I’m glad we’re friends,” Bucky says, quietly, like it’s later than it is.

“I’m glad too.”

“What about you?”

“What?”  
  
“What are you thinkin’?”

Reluctantly, Steve says, “I was actually thinkin’ about your room.”

“Well that’s exciting.”

“I like it.”

“Thanks. Bed comfortable?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you like about it?”

“It’s very…” What’s a word Steve can use for how this house makes him feel? How Bucky’s room makes him feel? It makes him feel hopeful that his life could be like this. It makes him feel sad that it isn’t right now, that he’s missed out on the regular American childhood and won’t ever experience how Bucky’s life is right now. “I dunno.”

“Okay.”

“It just reminds me of you.”

“I wonder why.”

“Don’t be a smartass.”

“Hypocrite!”

“I just mean, I can look at this baseball trophy and it has meaning. Like, context. You know?”

“You’re so weird.”

“How is that weird?”

Bucky braces his elbows on the floor like he’s going to sit up but he just eyes Steve in the darkness that’s getting darker. “I don’t wanna overgeneralise. But you romanticise stuff a lot.”

A thrill runs through Steve. He’s been observed. “I do?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that bad?”

“No, duh, of course it’s not. But it’s just a goddamn trophy. I didn’t even do that well in that tournament. The team carried me.”

“That’s not the point. It tells a story.”

“It doesn’t. It’s just stuff. Everythin’ is just stuff.”

Bucky’s flippant, non-material attitude towards his possessions reminds Steve of someone never wanting for them.

Bucky continues, “I guess it’s not that weird, but I don’t get it. You gotta explain it to me.” He pauses. “It sounds nice. Thinkin’ like you do.”

Steve considers for a second. He’d never had much, so the little they’d had went a long way, an item not only serving its purpose but providing entertainment. He calls to mind long winter evenings where he and his mother had distracted themselves from the cold by reading to each other and imagining if the creaking coming from the apartment above were a fearsome monster and how Steve would fight it off with the curtain pole.

He tells Bucky this. He doesn’t mean to. It just slips out.

“Maybe it’s cos you read,” Bucky says, and his tone is the same, unaffected by Steve’s confession, and Steve relaxes with the acceptance. “I don’t read much.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you and your mom read?”

“Poetry books, mostly.”

“You got any with you?”

“No. But…” He hesitates. It seems too much to share.

“What?”

“I got one memorised. If you want. You don’t have to listen to it.”

“Lemme hear it.” Bucky lies flat and uses one forearm as a pillow, tucking his other arm into the sleeping bag to hug himself. He closes his eyes and wiggles around melodramatically, aware Steve is watching him. “Okay! I’m ready. Lemme hear it.”

“You sure? It’s boring.”

“I said I wanted to know you too. I wasn’t lying.”

Steve had forgotten about that. He supposes it’s only fair to let Bucky hear the poem, when Bucky had given him so much of himself only the day before.

It’s different than it is with his mom. With Sarah, he just repeats the words she already knows, that she read as a child with her own mother and likes to hear in Steve’s voice. With Bucky now, it’s brand new, and it feels that way to Steve as well.

The poem he knows is his mom’s favourite, the one he’s been reading at least once a week for years and years. It’s long, so he calls to mind his two favourite verses so as not to put Bucky off. He takes out the Latin parts for the same reason, just to be safe, translating them into his favourite version of the words.

“ _The high mountains are blasted oft_  
_When the low valley is mild and soft._  
_Fortune with Health stands at debate._  
_The fall is grievous from aloft.  
__And sure, it thunders through the realms._

_These bloody days have broken my heart._  
_My lust, my youth did them depart,_  
_And blind desire of estate._  
_Who hastes to climb seeks to revert.  
__Of truth, it thunders through the realms_.” 

When he stops, there’s a silence, and then Bucky asks, “Is that the end?”

“Yeah.”

“What does it mean?”

Steve opens and closes his mouth. He’s never thought about that before. “I dunno. I know what it’s about, but I don’t know what it means.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s by this guy Thomas Wyatt, he was in love with this lady Ann Boleyn. You know, one of the wives of Henry the eighth?”

“The king?”

“Yeah. And Henry had her killed, and Wyatt was watching from this tower where he was in prison.”

“That’s sad. Why do you like it so much?”

“It’s my mom’s favourite.”

“Why?” So many questions, his eyes still closed.

“Well, she says it’s cos of how much he must be feeling, losing the love of his life, but he’s so calm about it and he sees his feelings right there in front of him. She says it’s like he’s writing about the past even though he wrote it as it was happening.”

“Interesting.”

“And that thing about the broken heart? She says he was the first guy to ever write that. A broken heart. It’s a cliché these days, isn’t it, saying your heart is broken. But at the time it was original. And when you think about that… saying his heart is broken. It’s beautiful, and we take it for granted now because it’s so overused.”

“Is that why you romanticise everythin’? You don’t wanna take it for granted.”

“Maybe. I haven’t thought about it.”

It’s pitch black now, the outside lights turning off one by one until there’s just the weak moonlight and the sounds of Bucky’s body against the floor. Steve wishes he could see Bucky’s face.

“Do you think like that all the time?” Bucky asks, voice quiet again.

“I guess. I don’t know.”

“You got a pretty good life, Stevie.”

After comparing his life to Bucky’s all afternoon and evening, thinking about how his childhood wasn’t normal and how he’d missed all the experiences you associate with being young, he’d missed out how his mom is his best friend and he was never treated with anything but love, how she’d taught him things you’d think were too old for a young boy to know.

“Yeah, s’pose I do. Thanks.”

“Thanks for what?”

“For sayin’ that.”

“You’re welcome. Thanks for sharing.”

“You’re welcome. You wanna talk about anythin’ else?”

The sound of Bucky breathing in slowly, breathing out all in one go. “Can I meet your mom?”

Steve grins in the darkness. “I asked her earlier. She said you’re welcome anytime.”

A pause before Bucky speaks. Steve hopes it’s filled with Bucky smiling too. “Awesome. How ‘bout you? You got anythin’ you wanna say?”

There are a thousand things Steve wants to ask Bucky. Why he needed to laugh. Why he’d drank so much that night. Why he sometimes wore a face that Steve hadn’t yet managed to translate.

“Nope.”

“Okay. Night.”

“Night.”

Steve feels a little breathless under the weight of the three blankets Bucky had insisted he have against the cold. He feels incredibly safe in the bed that Bucky trusted enough to fall asleep in. He tries to stay up long enough to hear Bucky fall asleep but it takes him first.

* * *

Bucky hears Steve’s breathing slow and even and tiny, breathy snores start forming and he listens and listens and waits for the birds to start singing at four a.m. like they usually do when he’s in this room. He watches as Steve’s face gets more and more visible as the light streams through the window and wonders if he looks like that when he lies in that bed. But he doesn’t think he does. 

* * *

Steve dreams that he’s drowning. He wakes up in the middle of the ocean and he’s got no air in his lungs. He tries to swim up but he doesn’t know where it is. Eventually he has to inhale. 

He wakes up in Bucky’s bed and thinks, _I’m drowning._

But he opens his eyes and he’s on dry land, but that doesn’t make sense, because he can’t breathe.

His chest is on fire. He tries to push the blankets off him but his strength is gone. He can hear the pounding of the waves in his head and his vision spots with the colour of the bottom of the ocean.

“Bucky,” he tries to say, but there’s no air in his lungs and he can’t inhale. The spots eat up half of his vision and he thinks, _I’m dying._

His arms shoot out to his sides and he grabs the first thing his fingers brush, grabs it and pushes it as hard as he can. The alarm clock crashes to the ground and bounces on the carpeted floor.

Bucky stirs.

Steve grabs the next thing, pushes it even harder.

The stack of magazines spills at such a speed that a few hit Bucky in the face.

“Shit,” Bucky mumbles. “Get off me.” He yawns and stretches his legs out, squeezes his eyes shut and turns over to face Steve, sitting up slowly and rubbing at his head and starting to smile and say good morning.

The last thing Steve sees before he passes out is Bucky’s realisation that something is wrong. The last thing he hears is the phone falling out of Bucky’s hand in his haste to call nine-one-one.

* * *

Steve hasn’t been to hospital in years. When he was a baby, they told his mother everything that was wrong with him, and how much it would cost, and she went and checked out twenty-three books from the library and read for three straight days and learned everything there was to know about the ten ailments Steve had been cursed with. They got by with home remedies and observing what made it worse (stress, high heart rate, smoke).

He is reluctant to open his eyes, so when he does, he stares at the ceiling. Mottled white slabs of drywall on a plastic frame.

He wants to know what happened to him. What the doctor has to say. Whether it was nothing or something or everything. But not yet.

“Steve, right?”

The crisp English accent from beside his bed tears his eyes away. There’s a woman there in a white coat and a kind smile. She’s the most beautiful woman Steve has ever seen.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m Doctor Carter. How are you feeling?”

This is something Steve hasn’t actually thought about yet. He takes stock of his body, stretching out his arms and legs like his muscles were the problem. “I’m alright. My chest feels kinda tight.”

“I’m not surprised.”

_What’s wrong with me?_ He wants to ask. He really does.

“Do you need any morphine?”

“No, that’s alright. If I say yes, my mom’ll kill me. Not that I do what she says all the time, it’s just – I _do,_ but…” Dr Carter looks at her clipboard and Steve uses the opportunity to trail off, filled with shame. This is the first time he’s spoken to a grown woman who wasn’t his mom or a cashier or a server. Although, his doctor isn’t much more dignified; still a woman forced to talk to him through some kind of contract.

“Has this kind of thing happened before?” Dr Carter asks, pursing her lips with concern at something on the chart before folding it and looking back at Steve.

He can’t meet her eye as he says, “Maybe.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well. There’s been a couple of times I’ve passed out recently, and I don’t know why it happened, but it was the same sorta thing… my chest hurt.”

“Have you been diagnosed with asthma before?”

Steve flinches at the marked term. “Not officially. I always kinda side-stepped it.”

Dr Carter nods like she understands his reasoning. There’s care in her eyes that doesn’t seen fabricated. “Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to stick you with it now.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Don’t worry, Mr Rogers. Unlike most of the medical community, I don’t believe the condition is psychosomatic. I’ve always liked to go against the crowd in that way.”

A joke. Kind of. Steve smiles at her to be polite.

“I’m going to try and help you.”  
  
“How?”

“Well, I’m not going to prescribe you cigarettes, for one. Most people with this condition report that being around smoke is detrimental. Would you agree?”

“Definitely.”

“I’d like you to stay away from smoke then.” She hands him a pack of tablets. “I’d also like you to take one of these every day and let me know if they help. It’s experimental, but I think it might help.”

“What are they?”

“Allergy medication.”

“I already take allergy medication.”

“So take more.”

Steve puts the tablets on the table beside his bed. The doctor eyes him like he should have taken one then and there, so he picks them back up, pops one out and downs it with the glass of water she passes him. “Thank you,” he says.

“That’s alright, Mr Rogers.”

“How do you know my name?”

Dr Carter smiles and her eyes flash towards the door of the room. “Your friend’s been waiting outside for the last few hours. He said he wouldn’t leave until you were awake.”

Steve’s skin prickles all over, all his hairs standing on end. “Brown hair? Ridiculous name?”

“That’s the one.”

“Can he come in?”

“I wanted to ask your permission, seeing as he’s not family.”

“Yeah, let him in. Thank you, doctor,” he says again as she moves towards the door.

Dr Carter turns back around and smiles at him. He realises for the first time just how young she is. “We’ve got to keep you overnight because an attack is likely to happen again tonight, so soon after the first one. So, sadly, this isn’t goodbye.”

In the brief moment between the doctor leaving and Bucky entering, Steve tries to smooth his hair down, pull up the blanket so he looks less ridiculous in the cheap paper hospital gown. But Bucky had been the one to bring him in, he would have seen worse.

What’s the last thing he remembers? Waking up in Bucky’s bed. Drowning. Then waking up here. Does he remember the night before that? Yes. Does he remember getting to the hospital? No.

Bucky must have called the ambulance. How long has it been? A few hours, the doctor said. Bucky had waited that long? But of course he had. It was Bucky. Steve wouldn’t have expected anything less.

The double doors open and here he is. Still wearing his pyjamas, looking excited and incredibly tired at the same time, hair stuck to the side and a red blotch on his face from where he had presumably been leaning on his hand. Steve wonders what time it had been when he’d woken Bucky with his flailing. He remembers the sun, but it rises as early as five at this time of year.

The first thing out of Steve’s mouth is, “My mom.” He starts the sentence without knowing where it’s going, but it ends there. He doesn’t even realise it in time to turn it into a question.

Bucky stops a few steps into the room. “I went to your house right after they took you away. I told her what happened, and I came right back here after. Hope that’s okay.”

Bucky in Steve’s house, seeing how small it is and how freezing cold and how his mother would have still been in bed without Steve to help her out.

“What did she say?”

“She said you should call her when you’re up. She wanted me to drive her to the hospital but I downplayed it a lot, said you were practically fine. I thought that would be what you’d want.”

Steve struggles for words after being analysed so accurately. So he just says, “Thank you. Was she worried?”

“Duh.”

“I mean, was she okay?”

“She’s fine.”

There’s more to talk about, but with the urgent issue out of the way, Steve finds he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. Bucky’s opinion will be kind but he doesn’t want to have to explain the situation with his mother, the explanation that will be necessary if the subject doesn’t change. It takes too long and he’s too tired.

His apology stirs in him in the silence, but of course, Bucky interrupts him as soon as he opens his mouth, sitting on the edge of his bed and saying, “I like your dress.” He looks at Steve’s paper gown and smirks.

“Thanks. My mom actually made it for me.”

Bucky laughs, and Steve feels a little more healed already.

“You scared the shit out of me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Bucky folds his arms across his chest. Steve is expecting a rejection: _don’t apologise. It wasn’t your fault._ But Bucky just says, “I was so worried,” and that’s how Steve knows that it’s serious.

“What happened?”

Bucky lets out a deep breath that he must have been holding. His fingers pick at the edge of Steve’s blanket and he shuffles backwards onto the bed so that he’s bumping against Steve’s legs. Even beneath the blanket, Bucky’s warmth spreads through his skin.

“I called an ambulance… do you remember that?”

“Kind of. But that’s the last thing.”

“So they came,” he continues, speaking slowly and carefully like it’s hard. “And they didn’t know what was wrong with you. They looked at you, passed out, and they didn’t know what to do. They wanted to leave you. They told me to call again when you woke up.”

Steve stares at Bucky’s profile. “And?”

“And… well, I yelled at ‘em.” He looks embarrassed, a little ashamed, but also proud and not at all sorry.

“You did?”

Bucky nods, staring at the floor, and Steve remembers Bucky shouting at Schmidt and the other boys who were beating the shit out of him. This is the second time Bucky has saved him.

“I had to. I made ‘em take you to hospital anyway. I went to go tell your mom – by the way, I realised I don’t have your telephone number, which is ridiculous – and they took you off. Once I got here, that lady doctor, she told me she gave you some oxygen until your heart rate slowed down. Does…” Bucky glances at Steve and looks away again. “Does it hurt?”

“A little.”

“I wish I had some jokes for ya.”

Steve starts grinning. “I hadn’t even thought about that.”

“What? It’s only fair. When I was hurtin’ you helped me. Now we’re switched, and I’m useless. I got no jokes and I’m not funny.”

“You’re funny.”

“When have I ever been funny?”

“There was that time you fell over.”

“That wasn’t on _purpose._ ”

“Don’t gotta be on purpose to be funny.”

Bucky laughs, and slaps Steve on the leg. “Dammit! You’re so good at that.”

“It’s the poetry. The source of all my powers.”

“I don’t think poetry can be funny.”

“The bad stuff can.”

Bucky laughs again, finally looks at Steve for more than a split second. “So are you okay?”

He isn’t okay. “I’m okay.”

“D’you know what was wrong with you?”

Yes. “No. The doctor said she’s gonna run some tests.”

Bucky nods, biting the inside of his lip. Steve realises he doesn’t feel the warmth of Bucky’s body on his leg anymore, must have adjusted to the temperature.

“I think your mom likes me.”

“Yeah?”

“I think. I like her too.”

“Yeah, she’s great. I should call her.”

“Okay. Do you want me to go?”

“No, it’s okay.” Knee-jerk response that he immediately regrets. “Can you pass me the phone?”

Bucky slides the phone over from the other side of the table next to Steve’s bed and hands him the receiver. Steve recites the number to him, unable to reach the dial. As the phone rings, Bucky sits back on the edge of the bed, his body not touching Steve’s anymore. Where the warmth has gone, Steve’s leg is cold.

“Steve?”

“It’s me.”

“Are you okay? What’s happening?” Her tone is one he’s heard before, quiet panic, her responsible adult voice she uses when she doesn’t want him to freak out.

“I’m okay. I’m in the hospital but I’m okay. They wanna keep me overnight.”

“Why?”

“To run some tests.”

“Why do they need you overnight for that?”

“Uhh.”

“Is James there?”

“James? Oh, yeah, Bucky’s here.”

“Are they keeping you overnight for observation because they think whatever happened to you is going to happen again, but you don’t want to say that in front of your friend because he won’t understand?"

Steve smiles into the phone; Sarah had been a nurse in the Great War, and a damn good one. He sees Bucky look at his smile, probably wondering about it, why it’s there after they’d been talking about him. 

“Nothing gets past you, huh?”

“Afraid not, my darling boy.”

“Are you gonna be alright on your own?”

“I’ll be fine for a day. Anything for you.”

“But you’re all on your own.”

“Not if you call me every half hour. Which you will.”

Steve looks up at Bucky, who is frantically pointing to himself and mouthing something that Steve can’t make out. Regardless, he gets the message. “Mom, I got an idea,” he says into the phone, and Bucky throws up his hands and badgers him for at least partial credit.

* * *

Bucky drives the shitty car to Steve’s building and heads up to Steve’s apartment for the second time.

The first time, he hadn’t thought anyone would answer, certainly hadn’t expected to be invited upstairs and greeted by a friendly if pale woman, lying in bed at noon. It was a hard conversation but she’d understood, kept a straight face, clearly been through this kind of thing before. Which was concerning. Clearly Steve had some stuff he hadn’t told Bucky. But that was none of his business.

He loiters outside the building until someone comes out, ducking inside before the door closes. He heads up the old wooden stairs, avoiding the missing step on the ground floor, and lets himself into Steve’s apartment, the door always left open when Steve was out.

Sarah is exactly where he’d left her. She smiles at him and says, “James, you look tired.”

He stops in his tracks. “Uh.”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you worried about Steve?”

The woman is damn perceptive. Bucky notes that he shouldn’t spend too much time with her.

He busies himself with the tasks Steve had set him; make some tea, make some sandwiches, pick up some books for Steve to read. He doesn’t answer Sarah’s question, just opens all the cabinets looking for plates with her eyes on him until she gives up on waiting for her answer and says, “They’re under the sink." 

Bucky thanks her and begins to make the sandwiches. It’s an awkward silence but Sarah soon fills it. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s fine. I really don’t know why they have to keep him overnight.”

“It’s just a formality.”

“It’s a stupid one.”

“Is he holding up okay? Not his health. Is he alright?” 

Bucky glances at her quickly while he wraps four of the sandwiches in tin foil. “I think he’s okay. He was cracking jokes and everythin’.” 

“That’s my boy.”

“You raised a good kid, ma’am.”

“I know.”

Per Steve’s instruction, Bucky helps Sarah to the kitchen table and gives her a sandwich, watching to make sure she eats all of it, “even if it takes a half hour”. The apartment is incredibly cold and he notes Sarah’s three cardigans, thick socks as well as slippers.

“You make this?” he asks her, seeing the crochet of the blanket draped across her knees.

She shakes her head and a fond smile appears. “Steve.”

“Steve?”

“He’s got those nimble fingers. Patience, too." 

Bucky smile mirrors Sarah’s, fond and wistful and in awe of everything Steve’s grown up to be. “That sounds like him.”

“You’re worried about him.”

He hadn’t answered her question from earlier, but he didn’t have to. He knows it’s written all over his face that he cares about that boy.

“I am.”

“Don’t be.” 

“You’re worried about him too.”

“I’m his mother. I worry about him even when he’s right beside me.”

She finishes her food and leans back in the old chair that would snap under the weight of anyone else. But Steve and his mother are so terribly, concerningly skinny.

Bucky pats her hand awkwardly and gives her the smile he usually gives to adults, parents, anyone who he doesn’t know and has to win over. “I’ll take good care of him, Ms Rogers.”

Sarah narrows her eyes and his smile falters. Her blue eyes, just a few shades paler than Steve’s, see right through him. It’s like how it feels when Steve looks at him; he is observed. But something about Sarah’s eyes is a little less gentle.

“Would you stay with him tonight?” Sarah asks him.

“At hospital?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“That was easy. I thought I would have to convince you.”

“Did you really?”

“Yes. I thought you would pretend that you care less.”

* * *

Back in the hospital, they’ve turned on the heating because Dr Carter noticed how much Steve was shivering. He’d protested, but she had insisted, stating medical reasons, but he suspects she’s just kind. 

He likes her, the doctor. She’s got balls, and a heart, at the same time.

Bucky returns with a bag full of books and a scarf that Sarah had insisted Bucky make Steve wear. He wraps it around Steve’s neck three times and ties it in a double knot.

“Alright, alright,” Steve laughs, pushing Bucky’s hands away. “I’m warm, I swear. How’s she doin’?”

“She’s alright. Worried about ya.”

“That’s nothin’ new.”

The sun has started to set outside the window. Bucky had helped Sarah back into bed and read to her, the same poem Steve had read to him, only the night before. Was it really only the night before? It felt to Bucky like a lifetime ago. He’d discovered on reading the poem from the book that it was longer than Steve had made it out to be. He appreciated the abridgement as much as he resented it.

Steve beats his pillow before propping himself up in bed. “I should probably go to sleep sometime soon. They’re gonna be in to check my blood pressure at midnight and four a.m., so I gotta get a head start if I want a decent sleep." 

“Alright.” Bucky shuffles his butt on the chair and puts his feet up on the end of Steve’s bed. “Goodnight.”

“What are you doin’?" 

“Your mom asked me to sleep here tonight.”

Steve screws up his face because it’s something he should have seen coming. “You don’t have to.”

“It’s fine.”

“Really, you don’t have to. I won’t tell her.”

Bucky laughs. “You think that’s what I’m worried about?”

“I’ll be fine on my own. I don’t get lonely.” 

“Everyone gets lonely, Stevie. Shut up and lay down.”

“Seriously.” Steve puts on his most serious face and tries to sound like he’s being serious. “You don’t have to stay. I won’t think you suck if you go. I wouldn’t stay.”

“Yes you would.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do.” Bucky pulls his jacket onto his legs and closes his eyes, leaning his head back on the chair. “I promised I’d stay. I always keep my promises.”

“You do?” Always desperate for more information, more clues.

“Well, I dunno. No one’s ever made me promise anythin’ before. It’s not really a thing that people do.”

“My mom’s weird.”

“Yeah. But I like the idea of keepin’ my promises. So you’re not gettin’ rid of me tonight.”

Steve wants to argue some more but he knows that Bucky won’t give in. He’s too damn kind.

So he closes his eyes and waits for the sleep that usually comes so easily for him. But his mind is whirring loud in his ears, working its way down the path that Steve doesn’t want to walk on.

He thinks: Bucky was in the waiting room for hours, called the ambulance, remembered where he lived and drove for hours for his mother’s peace of mind. There’s no way he would leave tonight, or ever. There’s no way he would leave Steve alone, ever. They’re friends now, definitely. For life, if Steve wants. There’s no way Bucky would ever leave him, so Steve knows it’s down to him to mess it up. Either they’ll be friends forever, or Steve will break Bucky’s heart.

That’s a lot of responsibility for a seventeen-year-old. Or anyone.

Again, Steve waits for Bucky to fall asleep first, for once manages to stay awake with the reserves of his mostly-unconscious morning, but as the minutes pass by, he doesn’t hear any change. Bucky keeps tossing and turning in the chair, shifting his position and trying to get comfortable. After almost an hour has passed, Steve realises that Bucky is uncomfortable.

“Bucky.”

“Hm? You’re still awake?”

“Yeah. You alright?”

“Fine.”

Steve eyes Bucky’s outline in the darkness and tries to think of the best way to say what he’s trying to say. “You’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine. Go to sleep.”

“Look… this bed is big enough for three of me. There’s more than enough space for you, too.”

A long, long pause. “You want me to…”

“I can’t listen to you shift your ass around all night, man,” Steve says, an attempt at a joke that falls flat with honesty.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. Bucky doesn’t move. “There’s definitely room?”

“Yes, now come on.”

Bucky stands up, waits a moment, and comes to stand beside the bed. Steve shuffles over so he’s on the edge, and Bucky slides in next to him, draping his jacket over him. Steve pulls the blanket so it’s over both of them, confident that Bucky would never take it for himself if he didn’t insist.

When his fingers brush over Bucky’s arm, he feels Bucky freeze. Steve settles the blanket over him and takes his hand back, but Bucky stays rigid beside him, his back to Steve, legs out straight, taking up as little space as possible in the bed.

“Relax,” Steve whispers. “There’s room.”

“Go to sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

“So am I.”

Steve rolls his eyes at Bucky’s martyrdom. Bucky’s gonna be up all night if he stays as he is, a whole foot and a half of empty space between them.

“You’re makin’ me nervous. I can’t sleep with you like that,” Steve tells him, because it’s true.

“Like what?”

“So…” He avoids saying, _I can’t sleep with you so far away._ That would give the wrong impression. “Stiff. Formal.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. If anything, he tenses up more. Steve regrets saying anything, letting Bucky know he’s being watched. People don’t like that.

Something, probably exhaustion, makes him touch Bucky’s shoulder. His words haven’t worked, his last touch causes Bucky to tense. It’s his last resort to relieve the tension when the usual things don’t work.

Bucky’s shoulder is clothed in cotton and juts out straight upwards with his uptight posture. Under Steve’s fingertips, it folds, collapses in towards Bucky’s chest as his tension deflates, pops like a balloon under Steve’s needle touch, disappears from under his fingers.

It’s worked. Either that, or Bucky’s just moving away from him. Whatever the reason for the relaxation, Steve’s satisfied. He falls asleep less than a minute later.

* * *

When he next opens his eyes, it’s still dark. Steve wonders for a moment if he fell asleep at all, and that’s when he feels that Bucky’s finally given up and moved into the space between them.

They’re touching. Their arms are touching. A strip of contact on their forearms, Bucky’s face resting on his hand, turned towards Steve. His mouth is open and he breathes through it.

Steve feels voyeuristic, watching him sleep. It feels like he’s taking advantage. He wouldn’t watch Bucky like this if he were awake, so it’s not alright to do it when he’s asleep. There’s no difference.

Except there is. Bucky can’t see him. He’s off in a dream and Steve is here, in reality. So that makes it Steve’s responsibility to move his arm away.

He does, pulling it towards him, putting an inch of space between their skin. The cold rushes in, and his skin tingles where it’s now bare, but Steve knows he’s done the right thing. It wouldn’t be right to let them be touching like that. It’s what Bucky would want, if he were awake, surely.

Right after he moves, Bucky’s breathing hitches. Steve closes his eyes quickly as Bucky hums a little, shifts in bed.

Steve listens, doesn’t open his eyes in case Bucky is looking at him. He thinks he is. He feels like Bucky is looking at him. It’s something about how Bucky is holding his breath.

So many things go through Steve’s head that he can’t pick out just one. He just listens, waits for Bucky to breathe, feels the cold patch on his arm and doesn’t think.

Bucky breathes, and whispers, “Steve?”

Usually Steve would say something back. But he doesn’t want Bucky to know he’s awake and has been lying here listening to him for god knows how long, and he doesn’t think he could convincingly ‘wake up’. So he just keeps his eyes closed and breathes slowly to feign sleep.

After a moment, Bucky lays his arm back against Steve’s.

Of course, Steve panics. Should he pretend to wake up? Should he stir but remain ‘asleep’? No, he doesn’t think he could pull off either of those things. He’s a terrible actor. Bucky would know something was up. Better he thinks Steve’s just a really deep sleeper, or he’s bogged down by all the trauma of the day.

His head starts to hurt with how much he’s trying not to think about.

When Bucky’s breathing finally slows again, Steve opens his eyes. Bucky’s arm is laying against his own exactly like they were before. Exactly the same. If Bucky knew exactly how they were connected, it must not have been an accident. Bucky must have lay them together after Steve fell asleep.

Why?

He doesn’t know.

He’s falling back asleep. His arm is warming up again.

A thought comes into his head that he forgets by the time he wakes up. Bucky told Steve he likes boys even though it puts him in danger. What could be worth that risk? Why, of all people, had Bucky told Steve?

When he wakes up the next morning, Bucky’s back is to him and he’s breathing like he’s awake with his eyes closed.

* * *

“That’s ridiculous. They don’t know what’s wrong with you? How can they run all those tests and not know what’s wrong with you? Doctors are all idiots. You know what you should do? Go and visit my grandma in Moscow. She’ll take care of you. Clean your insides out so well your ears will bleed.” 

“I don’t really want my ears to bleed.”

“Yes you do. They’ll be so clean afterwards. Except for being covered in blood.”

Steve laughs with Natasha where they sit on the wall outside the high school. In the week since he’s been released from hospital, he’s been missing school and reading too much and spending too much time with his mom for a normal seventeen-year-old. He hasn’t had any relapses but neither does he feel any better, a fact that he’ll have to tell Dr Carter tomorrow at his check up. It seems whatever experimental treatment she was giving him in those pills hasn’t worked. Steve wonders whether there’ll be something else to try, or if that’s it for him. Either way, he’s not looking forwards to the appointment.

Steve is wearing two jackets against the harsh wind. The last of the snow melts under his feet as the weather begins to prepare for the spring. It’s a welcome change; winter is always the hardest for the Rogers family. Things will be easier now they are approaching March.

“Have you seen Bucky lately?” Natasha asks Steve, overly casual, and Steve turns and glares at her. “What?”

“Why would you ask me that?”

“I was just wondering.”

“You wanna know what happened after you said that thing about him being an outsider. Don’t you?”

Natasha shrugs. “That’s not what I asked, but sure, if you want to tell me, go ahead.”

“He told me he…” Steve shakes his head and kicks his heels back against the wall. It’s something he hasn’t thought about in a little while, not since that night at the hospital. It felt like too much to think about. So many variables, so much danger, so much that could go wrong. His life is going so well right now – he doesn’t want to ruin that. “He told me he doesn’t like girls.”

“Right.”

“And…” Steve doesn’t want to risk saying it out loud. “Well, you know. He told you already.”

“He did. So what are your thoughts on this?”

“No thoughts.”

“None? Good or bad?”

“Nope.” What good thoughts is he supposed to have? He’s accepting, but he’s not glad. He wishes it weren’t so. Wishes he could keep Bucky safe. That’s not a good thought.

There’s a pause as Natasha thinks about this. Then she says, “What are you getting him for his birthday?”

“That’s soon?”

“About two weeks away.”

“Fuck.” What do you get a guy like Bucky, who (in theory) has everything? “What do you usually get him?”

“Alcohol. But he won’t need me to get it for him this year, he’s turning eighteen.”

Eighteen. Steve remembers Bucky’s words about the issue. _I’d be fucked, I’m turning eighteen._ Danger everywhere and no way for Steve to help. He’ll turn eighteen in July and be safe as ever (which isn’t very safe at all).

“I’ll think of something,” Steve says.

“He always says we don’t have to get him anything.”

“Of course he does. And of course we do.”

“I know.” Natasha fiddles with the edge of her shirt, anxious to light up a cigarette but refusing to do so in Steve’s company. Bucky had told everyone that it makes Steve cough and even though it goes against all known science, they have to stop. Sam had called him a hippie but they’d all obliged anyway. “You didn’t answer my question. Have you seen Bucky?”

Short answer: yes. Long answer: not properly. Bucky’s been over a couple times to bring Steve his homework and check up on him, but he always leaves after ten minutes and Steve’s mom is always there. So it’s not the real Bucky that comes over. It’s James, responsible friend and good student. Steve is a little excited to go back to school just so they can hang out on their own. He’s got so many good jokes to tell Bucky, can’t wait to make him laugh again.

“Yeah, he brings me my homework. Have you seen him?”

“No.”

“No?”

Natasha lets out a deep breath. “I feel like he’s been avoiding me. We don’t usually see each other very often because we live so far away, but sometimes he’ll call me. He hasn’t been doing it lately.”

“Why do you think he’d be avoiding you?”

“Not sure.”

Again, Steve sniffs an ulterior motive in her line of questioning. “Do you want me to ask him?”

“If you want to.”

Steve thinks this is probably the reason she asked him to hang out. “I’ll ask him.”

“Thank you.”

They exchange phone numbers and part ways. It’s a Sunday evening and tomorrow he’ll be back at school. At least no one will ask him questions about his absence – probably no one will have even noticed he was gone.

He gets back to his apartment and calls out, “I’m back!” expecting to hear his mother’s voice calling him something weird like “sweetheart” and joking that he should leave again. But no voice comes back, because when he walks into the kitchen Bucky and Sarah are sitting at the kitchen table.

Steve stands in the doorway and eyes the paper bag on the table in front of Bucky, his nervous eyes, his strange formal energy. Steve raises his eyebrows and says, “Well, gee, don’t tell me I got homework on a Sunday.”

“James brought groceries,” Sarah tells him with a smile, clearly trying to fill the silence that was a split second too long. “Look, Steve, he brought oranges. Your favourite.”

Bucky gives him a small smile, that rare look of embarrassment visible on his face. He must be uncomfortable. Maybe he thinks he’s overstepped a boundary. Maybe he didn’t want Steve to be here when he came over.

Steve says, “That’s very kind of you, Bucky. Do you want to go for a walk?” He can’t wait until tomorrow for them to be alone. There are too many questions he needs to ask.

Bucky looks like he wants to say no. He says, “Okay.”

They step out into the street and look at each other. There’s something in the air. Something’s changed. Maybe Bucky’s been avoiding Steve, too. He always leaves as soon as he’s done explaining the homework, almost definitely tried to avoid Steve today. He’d been in all weekend, but he’s out the half hour Bucky chooses to come round? Too coincidental.

“I gotta go soon,” Bucky says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his middle-class overcoat and turning away from Steve, looking off down the street and squinting. “I gotta be home by six.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

Steve resists the urge to punch Bucky in the arm. “Bucky, come on. Don’t just stand there and squint like you’re in the movies. What’s goin’ on?”

When Bucky doesn’t answer, Steve starts walking, and Bucky walks alongside him.

“Natasha thinks you’re avoiding her,” Steve says, changing the subject but not dropping it. “She said you don’t call her anymore.”

“I’ve been meanin’ to.”

“You been busy?”

“Kinda. I don’t wanna get into it now.”

This isn’t what was going on that night at Scott’s, and it isn’t about what Bucky had told him in the car. This is a third, completely different issue.

“Your birthday’s soon, right?” Steve asks, trying a different tactic, planning to loop back around once Bucky’s distracted, anything to get him to open up and stop being so weird. “I dunno what I’m gonna get you.”

Bucky stops walking.

Steve slows to a stop and turns to look at him. “What?”

Bucky gives him a look, and it’s so obvious. Of course. His birthday. Eighteen.

“You don’t know that there’s gonna be a war.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “It’s gonna happen. You haven’t heard the kinda stuff they’re printing in the newspapers.”

It’s not meant to be a jab at how Steve can’t afford the papers, but it hurts him briefly that Bucky noticed. “No, I guess I haven’t.”

“They just sent two thousand people to one of those camps. Two thousand people, Steve. They arrested them and said they were criminals.”

“What’s so bad about that? A camp sounds better than a prison.”

“But they’ve got these big walls around ‘em. No one knows what goes on inside.”

“You don’t know that it’s a bad thing.”

“Stop tellin’ me I don’t know things,” Bucky snaps. “I know enough.”

“Okay, sorry.”

Bucky stares at his feet. Steve wants to reach out or something. Put his arm around Bucky, or tell him they’ll go to war together. But neither of these things is real.

“A book.”

“What?”

Bucky looks up, eyes still cold and angry but softer. “For my birthday. Pick one for me.”

“Any type in mind?”

“No. Pick one.”

Steve puts his hand on Bucky’s shoulder and tries to tell him that he would go to war with him if Bucky wanted, if the law allowed. He would go to war in his place. He would fight for a hundred years to keep Bucky safe. If the countries knew about this sad boy with too much kindness inside him, they wouldn’t fight. World peace at the hands of Bucky Barnes.

“Okay. I’ll think about it.”

“Good.”

“I got a joke for ya,” Steve says, and the tension cracks.

“Oh yeah? Lay it on me.”

“So this lady calls the fire department and she says, I need help, a boy is trying to get in through my window. And the guy from the fire department says, you got the wrong number, you want the police department. And the girl says, no I don’t, I need the fire department. You’re the ones who have the ladders.”

Bucky shakes his head and they start off down the street again. “That’s obvious."

“Hey. I don’t call your jokes obvious. Oh, that’s right, you don’t have any jokes.”

“Fuck you,” Bucky says, and shoves Steve with his shoulder. Steve laughs, open mouthed and grinning.

“It’s almost six,” Steve tells him. “You gotta go home?”

“I got time.”

* * *

Of course, Steve still has to buy Bucky a book.

He racks his brain all night and all the way to school the next morning. How to pick a book that Bucky would like. The only book he knows that Bucky likes is _The Great Gatsby,_ but everyone’s crazy about that book (except Steve, but he won’t mention that).

He thinks about it all through first and second period while Dr Banner is trying to teach them about how the moon affects the tides. Clint raises his hand and tells him that it makes no sense, and Dr Banner tells him that you can’t just reject science fact because it weirds you out, and Steve sees Bucky trying to explain the physics of it to Clint for the whole rest of the period. Steve always forgets that Bucky’s a straight-A student. It seems like he’s too good at everything to be true. Good at sports, good with people, good at school – Steve had consoled his lack of skill at these things with the thought that no one could be good at all three. But Bucky’s living proof.

It doesn’t make Steve feel shitty, though. He’s just proud of his friend.

At break, they sit under the same tree on the field, being able to sit on the grass directly without laying down their coats. It’s the first day in March and the sun is beginning to shine.

“What kinda books do you usually read?” Steve asks Bucky, trying to sound casual.

Bucky immediately laughs. “You trynna be subtle?”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t read a lot. I need you to educate me.”

“You don’t read anythin’ at all?”

“You know, you don’t have a lotta time to read when you do all your homework and play sports.”

Steve elbows him. “Don’t sass me, or you won’t get any present at all.”

“You gotta get me a present! It’s my birthday!” Bucky cries, grinning and elbowing Steve back. Steve is incredibly grateful that Bucky can talk about his birthday like he’s excited, no longer as hung up on the farfetched notion of a war.

“Okay, okay. I’ll take a look at what I’ve read tonight. I got time.”

“It’s in nine days.”

“That’s a long time. I might even put it off a couple of days, put my feet up. That’s how much time I have.”

At lunchtime, Steve and Bucky walk up and down the shelves of the library, Steve reading the blurbs of books aloud and Bucky telling him if he thinks they sound interesting or not.

“So this one is about a guy who wants to stay young forever, so this painting of him gets old instead.”

“Sounds creepy.”

“It is. And it’s also about aestheticism and the harmful notion of youth–”

“Ugh. Pass.”

“This one is pretty new, it’s about this guy Bilbo who leaves his home to go on an adventure with a bunch of dwarves.”

“Read it already.”

“Thought you said you didn’t read.”

“I like hobbits. So sue me.”

Steve puts the book back and groans. “You’re impossible.”

Bucky flashes his teeth. “Endearing, ain’t I?”

“Ha ha. See, you’re funny sometimes.”

“That wasn’t a joke. It concerns me that you think I was joking.”

When Steve gets home he enlists Sarah’s help. Of course, she recommends Virginia Woolf immediately, and Steve’s face sours. As supportive as he is of up and coming women writers, he never could get through her fleeting and distracted prose. He doesn’t have the concentration.

“Maybe I’ll get into her when I’m older,” Steve says to appease his mother.

“She’s writing for the younger generation!” Sarah cries, throwing up her hands. “Get into her now!”

They peruse the small, heavily overflowing bookshelf and everything would be a good present, but nothing seems perfect. The book Steve keeps coming back to is _A Farewell to Arms,_ but a book about the Great War isn’t much of a present to give to someone worried about being conscripted.

He could give Bucky the poetry book with the Thomas Wyatt poem, but he’s read that one already. He wants an ‘education’. What the hell does that mean?

It hurts his head so much he decides to come back to the issue later. He vows to walk into the city tomorrow and go to an actual bookstore to look.

At five o’clock is his doctor’s appointment. He leaves at four so he can walk, save the fifty cents that he would have spent on the cab. On the way there he thinks about how to break the news to the doctor nicely, which is something he probably shouldn’t be worried about. But he is. She’s so nice.

When he tells Dr Carter that the treatment isn’t working, she immediately hands him some different tablets and says, “Try these. Different formula. Come back same time next week.” She senses his nerves and his hesitation and smiles at him, an adult smile, stretched red lips and a pat on the back. “It’s alright, Steve. We’ll just keep going until we find something that helps. In the meantime, have you had any more incidents like what happened a few weeks ago?”

He tells her no, because it’s technically true. The same thing hasn’t happened. He’s woken up a couple of times feeling like he’s been pulled from the bottom of the ocean, but never like he’s still there. Which is, in his mind, an improvement. He doesn’t tell the doctor about this, though. It seems irrelevant.

* * *

Bucky’s birthday is on a Wednesday. Of course, he’s not in school.

The book is all wrapped and ready to go. Steve had given up on trying to give him something special and gone with a classic, _A Study in Scarlet_ by Arthur Conan Doyle. Bucky had never even heard of Sherlock Holmes, something Steve found ridiculous and unrealistic, so the book felt like the kind of education Bucky was asking for.

It didn’t feel like the perfect present, and Steve wasn’t happy with it. But he included a joke book with the present as well, hoping that it would help with the personal touch.

Bucky’s party starts at eight at Scott’s house. Bucky phones Steve the night before telling him that he’ll pick him up at seven thirty. Natasha phones Steve shortly afterwards, freaking out that she still hasn’t got Bucky a present.

“Just get him some booze,” Steve tells her. “He loves booze.”

“He can buy his own damn booze!”

“So can adults, but they buy each other wine all the time.”

“What are you getting him?”

“Books.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you’re too busy punching people in the face to be reading books. I assume.”

“Hey, I read. I like _The Great Gatsby._ ”

It’s weird being alone again at school, no Bucky as a buffer against the bullies or the weird glances. Usually he enjoys eating alone, but there are so many things he wants to talk to Bucky about that happened today. Like how Miss Hill had knocked her pencil cup off her desk and caught it an inch away from the floor. He has a theory that she was a spy in the Great War, something he’d love to discuss at length with Bucky. He can picture it now, Bucky telling him that Miss Hill is “of course a secret agent, why would a dame so beautiful wanna work here?” and Steve would say “she can do what she wants, just cos she’s a beautiful dame don’t mean she can’t work in a school” and Bucky would say “but she could be in Hollywood” and Steve would say “maybe she don’t _wanna_ be in Hollywood” and eventually Bucky would concede and Steve would feel like he’d done his good deed for the day.

He misses Bucky as he eats his sandwich alone. He thinks about how Bucky is out there somewhere, taking it easy, putting his feet up, trying to relax and probably thinking about how the passing of time is always a death wish.

When Bucky picks him up at seven twenty-eight, the shotgun seat is free. Natasha and Sam are sitting in the back. Sam looks incredibly pissed off.

Steve slides in the front seat and says, “So now that you’re an adult, you need someone cool in the front seat?”

“Gotta keep my reputation clean,” Bucky says back, grinning like he hasn’t seen Steve in months. “Can’t have one of these freaks makin’ me look bad.” He jerks his thumb back to where Sam and Natasha sit.

“You always look bad,” Natasha says.

“I know thirteen ballet moves that could kill you,” Sam tells him.

“Happy birthday,” Steve says, getting Bucky’s attention back and trying to hand him the present, but Bucky refuses, puts up his hand and pushes it away.

“No! We’re doing presents at Scott’s. Less awkward that way.”

“Awkward?”

“Bucky hates getting presents,” Natasha fills him in as Bucky pulls the car out into the road. “He thinks it’s uncomfortable to have so many people watch your facial expression.”

“Is that so?” Steve asks, smirking at the side of Bucky’s face as Bucky concentrates, amused at the thought of something making Bucky feel awkward. That’s something he’d like to see.

“Yeah, that’s so,” Bucky says. “It’s weird. You have to act like you like the present. Even if you like it, the face people make when they like stuff isn’t pronounced enough. So none of the reactions are genuine.”

“You’re a buzzkill.”

“I know. But we gotta drink first before I open any presents. That’s the deal.”

Steve freezes. Scott’s house. Drinking. Could this be a repeat of last time?

If Bucky senses Steve’s concern, he doesn’t say anything, but Steve swears he shakes his head a fraction.

When they get to Scott’s house, he opens the door in a stripy red and black shirt and yells, “Watch out everyone! We got a senior citizen here! Can we get some diapers? Some anti-wrinkle cream? Some perfume for the mothball smell?”

“You’re older than me,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes as he pushes past Scott into the house, informal with familiarity.

“Yeah, and I smell fine. What does that say about you, huh?” Scott jokes, attempting to catch Bucky in a headlock but failing miserably. Steve watches how his arm lands around Bucky’s shoulders, how Bucky jerks and jumps away from the touch, laughing all the while. A terrible thought crosses Steve’s mind: he’s never before suggested to Steve that he doesn’t like being touched.

“Let’s get drunk,” Sam says, pulling a bottle of gin from his backpack. “I wanna give Bucky his present.”

“You got me a present?” Bucky puts his hands to his heart. “I am moved.”

“You wait til you see it,” Sam tells him, heading into the kitchen to get some glasses. “See how moved you are then.”

They stay in the living room with the lights on because it’s a party, and parties don’t usually happen in pitch black basements – “not classy ones, at least,” argues Scott. They drink until they’re a little buzzed, about three drinks each, and when Bucky reaches for a fourth Steve nudges it out of Bucky’s reach with his elbow, subtle but deliberate, and Bucky gets the message.

The first present to be opened is Sam’s, of course. They’re all dying with curiosity. When Bucky tears open the paper, telling them all to close their eyes while he does (which none of them do), it’s a leotard. 

“I don’t understand,” Bucky says, holding it up and turning it over. 

“There’s nothing to understand. I just thought it would be funny,” Sam tells him. 

Bucky grins at Sam. “You’re right. Thank you. I am still deeply moved.”

“Dammit.”

Bucky opens Natasha’s bottle of wine that looks like it cost twenty dollars and also looks like it’s stolen. Scott gives him some records by some pianist none of them have ever heard of, to which Scott says, “What, you’ve never heard of Igor Stravinsky? That’s not my fault,” and Bucky calls him a pretentious asshole.

Then it’s Steve’s turn. He’s nervous as he hands Bucky his gift, wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. Bucky grabs it from him with eager hands and shakes it next to his ear. “Sounds fun.”

“Maybe it’s a pony,” Scott says.

Bucky tears open the paper, reads the titles of the books, and looks up at Steve with a modest smile that doesn’t look like acting. “Jokes and murders.”

“Naturally.” 

“Thanks, pal.” Bucky leans over and claps Steve on the shoulder.

“Okay,” Nat says, turning on some good music (not jazz) and pulling Bucky to his feet. “We are dancing now. It’s your birthday.”

“You can’t dance to Billie Holliday,” Scott moans. “It’s too depressing.” 

“I don’t care what your idea of depressing is,” Natasha replies, spinning Bucky around under her arm. “This is a party I want to enjoy, so this is a jazz-free party.”

It’s a different story twenty minutes later, after Natasha, Sam and Scott have opened - and finished - Bucky’s birthday wine. When Scott puts on some jazz at last, Natasha, thoroughly drunk, pulls Sam to his feet and starts dancing. Sam awkwardly sways along with her.

“I thought you were a dancer,” Steve shouts across the room.

“I do ballet,” Sam says, shuffling his feet while Natasha picks up his hands and starts moving his arms around. “You want me to dance arabesque? I can do that shit. I can’t do… that,” he adds, gesturing to Scott who is pumping both fists violently into the air.

“I don’t even think there’s a name for that,” Natasha says, and they both stop to watch Scott for a moment. “I can’t look away.”

“Me neither.”

“You wanna go outside?” Bucky leans over to ask Steve.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

They leave Scott, Natasha and Sam to their dancing and go out the back door. Bucky leads Steve over to a bench on the patio and they sit in the dark night air. Steve is fine, tipsy but nowhere near drunk, and he suspects Bucky is too. Instinctively Bucky pulls out his cigarettes but freezes with one halfway to his mouth. He puts it back in the box and tucks them into his inside jacket pocket.

“Thanks,” Steve says.

“No problem. Can’t have you chokin’ on my birthday.” 

“Are you havin’ a good time?”

Bucky smiles, lays his arm across the back of the bench behind Steve. “Yeah. Thanks for my present.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“Why wouldn’t I like it?” Bucky asks, probably sensing the miniscule edge in Steve’s voice. Why does Steve even bother to try and conceal anything around Bucky?

“I dunno. I just couldn’t find the perfect one. I wanted it to be exactly right, but all I got was ‘pretty good’.”

“I thought it was perfect.”

Steve laughs self-consciously, wraps his jacket more around himself in the cold. “Thanks. I’ll do better next year.”

Bucky laughs at that, even though it’s not funny. _Next year._

“How does it feel? Being eighteen?” Steve asks him. He means it to come out like, _how does it feel now you can legally buy alcohol and get married and vote?_ It comes out, _how does it feel now you could die any second?_ Maybe he’s drunker than he thought, because he never would have asked at all usually.

Bucky doesn’t seem to mind. He shakes his head and responds to the subtext instead of the question. “I try not to think about it.”

“Really?” Steve asks, because this does not seem like Bucky at all. “That’s your solution to your problem? Not to think about it?”

Bucky shrugs, his shoulder brushing with Steve’s. It makes Steve shiver.

“What other choice do I have?” Bucky says. “What else am I supposed to do?”

Steve can’t argue with that.

“Are you cold?” Bucky asks, because Steve is shivering again.

“A little.”

“Bullshit, a little. You’re shakin’.” Bucky leans forwards to take his coat off. Steve opens his mouth to protest but when Bucky’s thick leather jacket wraps around his shoulders over top of his own coat, Steve shuts up, because he’s safe and warm and smells like Listerine.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. I didn’t answer your question, did I?”

“Which one?”

“How it feels to be eighteen.” Bucky drinks from a beer Steve didn’t know he had, resting his elbows on his knees and gazing up at the stars. “It feels wrong. I’ve existed for eighteen years. That’s less time than zippers have been around.”

“It doesn’t feel like long enough,” Steve guesses.

Bucky nods, looking out at the dark trees and the moonlight and Steve is grateful that for once, he knows what Bucky is thinking about. “I dunno. It feels like I’m older. Like I’ve been alive forever. Since the start of the universe.”

It feels like Bucky’s been alive that long to Steve, too.

Steve says, “That’s a bit arrogant.”

Bucky laughs, a loud noise that breaks the quiet intensity. He leans back and puts his arm behind Steve again, so close to being around him. It’s non-committal and kind of distracting. Steve wants to tell him to do one or the other already.

“How’s your health?” Bucky asks him. “I haven’t asked in a while.”

“You asked like two days ago.”

“That’s a while.”

“I’m okay.” The events of the doctor’s appointment run through his mind; he hadn’t told Bucky anything about it. “I’ll tell you if something changes, how about that?”

“Not gonna stop me from askin’. So your symptoms are the same?”

“Yeah.”

“What are they again?”

Steve tells him the same lie, “I just cough sometimes. And I get headaches.” Headaches are easy to explain away. He gets them, sure, but it’s the least of his problems.

“And it’s hard to breathe. Right?” Bucky is staring at him.

“No. Where’d you get that from?”

“Watching.” Bucky doesn’t look embarrassed. “There’s a sound, when you’re sleeping. It sounds like it’s hard for you to breathe.”

Of course, he wants to lie. But Bucky already knows. It would take a very good liar to undo this now, and Steve isn’t one. “Yeah. It’s hard.”

“And they don’t know what it is?”

“That hasn’t changed in two days.”

“If you won’t tell me that it’s hard for you to breathe, how do I know you’re not tellin’ me what’s wrong with you?”

Steve’s breathing hitches, ironically.

Before he can reply, Bucky continues, “Whatever. Don’t tell me.”

“Buck.”

“It’s fine. I get it. I don’t know anythin’ about this kinda thing, I would just worry.”

Steve pulls the jacket tighter around him, a reminder that Bucky is right. He knows Bucky cares about him, a lot. He just doesn’t know why.

“You called me Buck,” Bucky says suddenly, his voice amused, smiling and poking Steve in the arm.

Steve pushes his hand away. “That’s what ya get for callin’ me _Stevie._ You make me sound like a damn teddy bear.”

“That’s cos you _are_ a damn teddy bear,” Bucky laughs, poking Steve while he struggles. “All fuzzy and warm! You’re about the same size, too.”

“Fuck _off_ ,” Steve says, almost giggling, smiling so wide it’s like his face is gonna crack. “You’re an _asshole_.”

Bucky’s eyes are shining. He looks so happy, a completely different person now compared to only minutes before. Laughing does something to him and Steve is happy he can provide it. He only hopes one day he can make Bucky this happy without anything being funny.

“Hey ladies,” Scott shouts, sticking his head out through the window, Bucky’s birthday leotard wrapped around his head like a bandana. “You’re missin’ the party!”

“Comin’!” Bucky yells.

Scott raises his eyebrows at them and looks down to where their bodies are now connected from the play fighting. Bucky’s arm is wrapped tight around Steve’s back and he’s pressed firmly up against his side. Seeing Scott’s gaze, Bucky stands up, face twisting into that unnatural look of embarrassment that’s so wrong on his features. Steve wants to tell him that it’s okay, but he doesn’t want to make it weird, or let Bucky know that he noticed anything.

Bucky looks at Steve like he wants to say something, but turns around and walks inside instead.

The whole world pulses around Steve and he has to close his eyes with the weight of it all, the extreme highs and the dizzying lows of being Bucky’s friend. Steve would do anything, would kill, to know what Bucky wanted to say to him. He knows that he would, and it scares him.

* * *

The next morning, Steve feels like he is dying.

It’s the first time he’s really been drinking. Sure, it wasn’t a lot, and he was only on the border of being ‘drunk’, but he feels like he’s gonna throw up and pass out all at the same time.

He trudges very slowly down the stairs and slides into a chair at the kitchen table. Sam stands at the counter, waiting for the kettle on the stove to boil and eating a banana.

“Morning,” he says.

“Hey,” Steve says, the first thing he’s said today. His voice comes out hoarse.

Sam smirks. “How you feeling, little buddy?”

Steve glares at him. “Don’t call me that.” 

“How you feeling, little guy?”

“I’m fine.” Steve wrenches his face into a smile. “See?”

“So convincing. How much did you drink after we went to bed?”

“None.”

Sam smirks deeper, the picture of superiority. “You’re feeling this shitty after three drinks?”

“I’ve never been drunk before,” Steve says, defensive.

“Yeah, I figured that out on my own.”

“Are you being mean to Steve?” Natasha asks as she walks into the kitchen and takes the whistling kettle off the stove. “I like him more than I like you, so tread carefully.”

“You’ve known me for seven years,” Sam says.

“Yeah, I know.”

“I wasn’t being mean. I was being friendly.”

Natasha looks at Steve and rolls her eyes. Steve mouths, _that was friendly?!_

“Play nice, children,” Scott says as he slides into the room in his woolly socks. “Steve did admirably for his first time.”

“If I remember correctly,” Natasha dryly says to Sam, “your first time getting drunk, you puked all over my bed and didn’t wake up until four p.m. the next day.”

“At least Steve can hold it down,” Scott adds, before looking to Steve and asking, “Right?”

Steve nods in confirmation that no, he didn’t puke. 

“Alright, got it,” Sam says, holding up his hands. “No harmless joking towards the little guy.”

“Actually,” Steve begins, “I’d rather you didn’t call me-”

“Perfect,” says Natasha.

“Thank you,” says Scott.

“No problem,” says Sam.

Steve quits while he’s ahead.

They drink their coffee (Steve has tea, because he figures if he drinks coffee his heart will explode) and Steve, in spite of himself, listens out for sounds from the floor above that would suggest Bucky’s awakening. The rest of the night after the awkward play fighting incident had been normal, just friends hanging out and then going to sleep. Nothing untoward. Nothing to suggest that the moment had had any sort of impact on their relationship. Steve hopes this is true – he’s not the arrogant type, but he’s not stupid. He knows he makes Bucky happy. He doesn’t want Bucky to have to be without that.

When the toilet flushes around five to eleven, Steve knows in his heart that it’s because he’d asked Bucky to get him home by half eleven, and it takes half an hour to drive home.

At one minute to eleven, Bucky grabs onto the doorframe and leans into the kitchen. “Let’s go.”

“You don’t even want breakfast?” Sam asks him.

“Nah. Let’s go.”

“Alright then.”

They all get up, even Scott, who just complains about his children leaving the nest and how they have to write home every other day and don’t talk to strangers unless they promise the _name brand_ candy.

As they walk out towards the car, Steve shoots a sideways glance at Bucky. His hair is messy, his face is pink from sleep and he’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday so his smell is louder than ever. Steve can smell him from two metres away. It’s not a bad smell. Well, it might constitute a bad smell to anyone else, except him.

Inside his mind, he thinks, _Why the fuck did you just think that?_

And he replies, hostile, _What? I just think he smells good. Nothing wrong with that. I think Natasha smells good too._

Steve takes shotgun again and they drive in silence with only small talk to fill the air. They’re all exhausted and a little hungover (though Natasha would never admit it) and it’s not weird. Everything seems normal with Bucky. At one point he leans over and whispers to Steve, “Do I smell bad? I forgot a change of clothes.”

Steve replies, after a pause, “Yeah.”

“Crap.”

Bucky rolls down his window and they don’t talk about it again.

When they drop off Natasha, they idle in her drive for a little while before Bucky turns to Steve and says, “I’m exhausted.”

“You alright to drive?”

“I’d say no, but I’ve been doin’ it this whole time.”

Why is he telling this to Steve now? Why did he wait until they were alone? Is there some kind of social cue Steve is missing?

He takes a shot at it: “You can nap at my place before you go back to yours, if you want.”

Bucky’s face folds in what’s probably supposed to be surprise but is more relief than anything else, so he must have been right. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. You’ve been to my place, what, twice now? So it’s all good.”

“Thanks, pal. I promise I won’t be any trouble. I’ll take the couch and be out of your hair in an hour. I just hate drivin’ when I feel like this, and my ma’s gonna get on my case when I get home lookin’ like this.” He pokes at his bloodshot eyes in the rear-view mirror.

“I thought you were asleep all mornin’,” Steve says at Bucky’s glaring sleep deprivation.

“Yeah, I was. I just had some trouble last night.”

“With what?”

“Just trouble with sleepin’.”

“Well, you’re always welcome at my place.”

Bucky’s mouth twitches as he supresses a smile like what Steve said means something to him. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

They pull away and start towards Steve’s house.

Bucky provides the obligatory, “You’re welcome at my house, too.”

Steve provides the obligatory, “Thanks.”

* * *

When they enter Steve’s apartment, Sarah’s voice carries down the small hallway: “Sweetie pie, how did James like his present?”

“I love it,” Bucky says.

“Oh, Steve, has your voice finally broken?”

Steve kisses his mom on the cheek and says, “Hey, it already broke. You _know_ this is as low as it’s gonna get.”

“Nice to see you again, James,” Sarah says as Steve gets her settled at the kitchen table. “Would you like some tea?”

“Oh, I dunno, I’ve never tried it,” Bucky says. He sits down opposite Sarah at the table as Steve puts the kettle on.

“Steve!” Sarah cries. “This boy has never had tea! How are you friends with him?”

“It’s difficult,” Steve tells her. He turns to Bucky and asks, “Do you want some?

Bucky shakes his head. “Not right now, but definitely at some point.”

“Mom, is it alright if Bucky just uses my room to take a nap? He doesn’t wanna drive home tired.”

Sarah is clearly taken aback but keeps her we-have-company face on. “Yes, that’s fine.” She narrows her eyes slightly at Bucky, so subtle that she could feign innocence if she needs to. Steve knows that his mother can be menacing if she needs to be, can make people uncomfortable without them being able to tell why. Why she’s using it on Bucky, he has no idea.

“I don’t like the thought that you drove my son here while you were that exhausted.”

Bucky sits up straighter, slips back into his _James Barnes, pleased to meet you_ posture. Steve’s eyes flit between his friend and his mother and wonders why neither of them is comfortable. “I’m always careful when I’m driving, ma’am. If I thought I couldn’t do it, I wouldn’t have. It’s just now that I’ve stopped to drop Steve off that it’s catching up with me.”

He’d stopped to drop off Natasha and Sam, too, but Steve doesn’t mention this.

Sarah nods once. “Alright then. You’d better go now, then, if you want to be back to your family for lunchtime.”

“Thank you.”

Bucky and Steve rise, and Steve whispers to Bucky when they’re far enough away, “Did you two have an argument or somethin’?”

“What? What are you talkin’ about?”

“I guess nothin’.”

They stand outside Steve’s door. Bucky looks at Steve expectantly, so Steve doesn’t have time to take a moment like he’d wanted to.

When Bucky steps into Steve’s room for the first time, Steve holds his breath, consciously holds it so Bucky can’t tell how fast he’s breathing. It’s the tiniest room in the world, about the size of Bucky’s bathroom, with a single bed and a bookshelf and a dresser and absolutely nothing else. The bookshelf is overflowing but the dresser isn’t. If Bucky had opened the dresser he would have found that the bottom drawer is filled with books, too.

Bucky stands in the middle of the room and turns around slowly, his eyes scanning absolutely everything, patient and meticulous.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks him, leaning against the doorframe, trying not to sound uncomfortable.

“I’m trynna do what you do,” Bucky tells him, three quarters of the way through his turn. “Romanticise and shit.”

“That’s nice of you, Buck, but there ain’t a whole bunch to romanticise.” Steve looks at his room with fresh eyes, imagines what it looks like to people who aren’t used to it. “Just a bunch of books and a place to sleep.”

“It’s got a helluva lot more character than my room, I’ll tell ya that.” Bucky finishes his spin and faces Steve again.

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“Mine’s full of… fake stuff. Trophies and yearbooks don’t mean anythin’. Like, sure, it tells a story, like you said before, but that story ain’t any good. I mean, you know me, kinda. Would you say that’s who I am?” He speaks matter-of-factly and watches Steve with wide, expectant eyes.

_You know me, kinda._

Does he?

Steve looks at the floor and tries to quantify Bucky. Does he have qualities? Is he a bullet point list of features? Bucky. Eighteen. Brown hair. Tall. Kind (but not always). Smart (but not always). Defensive (but not always). Surprising (but not always). Can you know a person in that way? People think all the time. They change their minds, have mood swings and secrets. There’s no way Steve would be able to tell Bucky that he was trophies and yearbooks, but he couldn’t tell him that he’s not those things, either.

But he knows Bucky, kinda. He’s kind, most of the time. Smart, because he tries. Defensive because of things Steve doesn’t know. Surprising because of things Steve doesn’t know. He’s sometimes honest and mostly hardworking and always complicated and Steve suspects that really he just wanted to see Steve’s room.

He gets it. A little bit. In that moment, Steve sees how Bucky is living inside the room of sports and good looks and health but he’s something else entirely. He’s the most indefinable person Steve has ever met and he might be Steve’s best friend.

“No,” Steve answers.

“Good,” Bucky replies.

He gets into Steve’s bed and politely keeps his eyes open until Steve leaves the room. Steve backs out slowly, unwilling to leave Bucky after his small moment, but lacking a reason to stay. He turns off the light and tells Bucky he’ll come get him in an hour.

Before he shuts the door completely, he whispers, “Sweet dreams.”

If Bucky hears him, he doesn’t reply.

* * *

Lying in Steve’s bed that smells bad in a good way, Bucky does not have sweet dreams, but he does not have bad dreams, either. When he wakes an indeterminable time later, there is a pain in his back and his neck is sore, but he has stopped being able to tell what the sheets smell like, which must mean that he smells like them, too. He waits silently, stares at the small crack in the wall, imagines Steve lying here night after night. Do they think about the same things? Does Steve toss and turn as Bucky does? Probably not. But maybe. But probably not. It drives him crazy, lying on the same sheets where Steve has his time to think. Why did he do this? It was a bad idea, a selfish thing, a self-destruction thing to ask to sleep here. He’s stupid, so stupid, and so young.

When Steve pokes his head in and whispers, “Are you awake?” Bucky doesn’t answer. He keeps his eyes closed to see what Steve will do, desperate to hear that soft voice again, wishing for Steve to say his name while Bucky can relax and do nothing but listen to it.

He waits for the name to come, or the door to close, but there’s silence. Steve is standing there, with Bucky lying shirtless on his front, his face turned towards the door. Is he watching him? Is he? He must be. Mustn’t he?

A minute passes. Bucky counts it in his head. Exactly sixty seconds before Steve says, “Bucky.”

Bucky opens his eyes and Steve cracks a joke about him being Sleeping Beauty, and Bucky laughs, but it was exactly sixty seconds. Is that all the time Steve would allow himself? One minute of looking? Bucky wishes he’d given himself more. If it were Bucky, he would have stood there looking at Steve for days.

* * *

The next challenge for them to face (for there always seems to be one after the other) is the fact that college acceptance is in twenty days.

Bucky cannot stop talking about it. He spends all his days calculating the bare minimum grades he’ll have to achieve to keep his GPA up, and the answers freak him out even though he’s well above where he needs to be. “If I get amnesia and get zero in my final exam,” he says to Steve one lunchtime, eyes frantic and hands gesturing wildly, “I’ll be close to failing!”

“How the hell would you get amnesia?”

“I dunno, I might fall over or somethin’.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m close to failing now, and I don’t even have amnesia,” Steve tells him, and Bucky laughs and gets distracted, if only for half a minute.

They spend all their breaks at school studying, Steve quizzing Bucky off the notecards he’d prepared, Bucky always insisting he should quiz Steve back but Steve insists that he learns more by listening. They study physics and relativity, chemistry and the atom, and Steve doesn’t understand anything but at least he knows that “the atom has a positively charged nucleus, with protons and neutrons, circled by negatively charged electrons equal in number to the protons inside the nucleus,” as Bucky recites under the tree on the baseball field, word for word with his notes. It still doesn’t make Steve feel shitty. He’s just excited for Bucky because he’s obviously going to get in, and it’s going to make him very happy. The fact that he’ll be moving hundreds, if not thousands of miles away is something that Steve tries not to think about.

Himself, he’s not as worried about getting in. Getting in would probably be a detriment to him, a hassle. He’s never liked education, never thrived in an academic environment, always itched to sit outside on the grass and think about drawing the buildings (even if he never had the right pencils). Plus, he’d have to move, or commute. It would take hours; he’d be gone the entire day. His mom has plenty of ways to entertain herself, but twelve or so hours would be pushing it a bit.

So if he gets in, his ego will be boosted a little, but he’ll probably not go. If he doesn’t, no problem.

When the first of April comes around, Bucky isn’t in school all morning. Steve knows it’s because he’s waiting by his mailbox for the post to arrive at around noon. He sees Clint making voracious notes in every class, as it’s his job to make sure Bucky doesn’t miss anything.

Steve spends the whole of the first four periods doodling trees and birds on his notebook and thinking about what it would mean if Bucky didn’t come to school in the afternoon.

He doesn’t have to think about it too hard, though, because when they break for lunch, Bucky’s sitting under the tree holding a small brown envelope.

“Hey,” Steve greets him, assessing Bucky’s face as he walks towards him. He doesn’t look upset, but he doesn’t look happy, either.

“Hey,” Bucky replies as Steve settles down next to him.

There’s a brief silence as Steve waits for Bucky to tell him what’s up.

“So?” Steve asks after a while, giving in to curiosity. “I’m dyin’ here. What’s in the envelope?”

In lieu of reply, Bucky passes the envelope to Steve. He turns it over; it’s unopened.

“I can’t open it,” Bucky tells him. “You gotta do it for me.”

Steve looks at the front of the envelope: _Columbia University_.

Bucky answers the question before Steve asks: “It’s closest.”

Steve wants to ask why that matters to him, but it should be obvious. When people say stuff like that, it’s because they want to be around their family, they’re worried about getting homesick, they don’t want to live anywhere else. With good traffic, Columbia is only an hour or so away. Bucky could live from home, or come home at the weekends. It’s not a statement that requires more questions, asking someone why they want to stay close to the city where they grew up. But that doesn’t stop Steve from having questions.

“You sure you want _me_ to open it?” Steve asks him, turning the envelope over in his hands. Bucky watches it as it moves, like Steve will inadvertently set it on fire.

“Yeah. I’m sure. If my ma opens it, I’ll be so embarrassed.”

“You won’t get embarrassed around me?”

“Well, it’s hard to be when you’re so embarrassing yourself.”

Steve threatens tearing the envelope in half down the middle.

“I take it back!” Bucky cries. “Please open it. Please.”

Steve gives him a look before tearing open the envelope and scanning the first sentence.

_Dear Mr. Barnes,  
_ _We are delighted to inform you…_

“You’re in,” Steve says.

Bucky blinks. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“What does it say?”

“’Dear Mr. Barnes, we are delighted to inform you that you have been accepted to Columbia University for the academic year of 1937/8, for the four-year course titled ‘Civil Engineering’.’ That clear enough for you?”

“Holy shit,” Bucky whispers, not even trying to read the letter himself. “I got in.”

“Did you get letters from anywhere else?”

Bucky pulls out a fat stack of envelopes from his bag, all opened and fraying at the mouth. “Got into almost all of ‘em.”

“Almost? Wow, you dropped the ball on that one, didn’t ya?”

“Shut up.”

Steve is about to properly congratulate Bucky, before Bucky props himself up to grab something from his back pocket. It’s another envelope. This one is still sealed. He hands it to Steve without a word.

The envelope reads: _Cambridge University_.

Steve raises his eyebrows. “You know this one’s in England, right? That’s not exactly down the road.”

“I just thought I’d try it,” Bucky says, a defensive edge to his voice. “If you don’t wanna open it-”

“No, no, I’ll do it.” It’s Steve who has to prepare himself before he opens this one. He rips it open, and of course, it reads, _Mr. Barnes, Cambridge University is pleased to accept you…_

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re in.”

Bucky’s reaction is electric, ecstatic. Steve watches as he punches the air and grabs the letter to read it for himself. It’s the polar opposite of the muted response to Columbia. Bucky wants this. Why didn’t he tell Steve he wanted this? But the answer to that one is clear.

When Bucky has stopped his cheering and jumping, he looks to Steve with a seemingly oblivious expression. “I can’t believe it, man. That’s the best one in the _world.”_

“I thought Harvard was the best in the world.”

“That’s the best in the country. Cambridge has been around _forever –_ that guy went there, that king you were talkin’ about.”

“Henry the eighth?”

“Yeah! Imagine that! They want _me!_ ”

“Congrats, pal.” Steve smiles, digging deep inside himself to find the part that’s happy for Bucky. “You earned it.”

“Hell yeah I did.”

Steve laughs at the sudden, uncharacteristic arrogance, keeps laughing as Bucky starts dancing, laughs louder than necessary to keep from thinking about the idea of Bucky in a different country, on a different continent, three and a half thousand miles away. The idea of Bucky being even one mile away makes his chest start to constrict, so he stops laughing and focuses on breathing instead, watches Bucky pump his fists and shake his hair and smile.

The things he hasn’t been thinking about try to catch up with him. Since that night in the hospital he’s been busying himself and thinking about other things. The only slip up he’d allowed himself was a few weeks ago when Bucky was in his bed and he’d stared, only for a minute, at the way he looked when he was asleep, his open mouth and line of dark eyelashes and bare, bare skin. Not for too long, but longer than he should have. Why couldn’t he look away from the image Bucky in his bed? Why hasn’t the thought left his head since? These are not feelings he’s supposed to have. These can’t be real. This isn’t who he is. It can’t be. It just can’t.

But he doesn’t need to think about it for it to exist. Something thunders through him at this moment that he cannot stop, bursting through the dam and flooding his veins, drowning him from the inside. He thinks about anything else, the finals he still has to take, what was in an atom again? But tears fight to come to his eyes as he sits under ‘their’ tree and watches his best friend’s excitement at leaving him for four years. What is it? Why can’t he tear his eyes away? Not even to blink? The tears spill over but he can’t blink them away. Bucky’s stilled and staring at him but Steve can’t look away. A positively charged nucleus. With protons and neutrons. He might never come back. Not even for Christmas. It would be too expensive. Bucky would probably get a scholarship, because it’s Bucky, but that wouldn’t cover recreational visits. Summers, maybe. But not Christmas, or Easter, or a couple of days when Bucky’s having a hard time and wants to be home, or when Steve can’t take it anymore.

Steve realises through everything that Bucky is saying something. Bucky has, after looking over his shoulder, knelt down in front of Steve and said something. From the shape of his mouth he’s saying the same thing again. Steve concentrates, forgets about how the nucleus of the atom is circled by negatively charged electrons equal in number to the protons inside the nucleus, concentrates on the sounds coming out of Bucky’s mouth. What is that? An ‘o’. A ‘t’. It takes him a while to see that Bucky’s saying, “I don’t gotta.”

Steve says, “Yes you do.”

Bucky says, “No, I don’t.”

Steve says, “Bucky.”

“What? What?”

“I’ll miss you, is all.”

Bucky laughs, and the air hits Steve’s face. Bucky looks over his shoulder again and reaches out with one finger, taps Steve’s cheek, and draws his hand back. He looks at his fingertip and shakes his head at the wetness.

“Yeah. Is all.”

Bucky knows where the secrets are.

Suddenly Bucky stands up straight, turns and waves at someone. He stands almost entirely in front of Steve, blocking his view of whoever is walking by, blocking their view of Steve too. Steve squints against the noon sunlight and realises that he must be a sight and a half, so he wipes his face and is standing by the time Bucky turns back to him.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, putting his hands in his pockets, betraying his jumpiness. “Just someone I know.”

What would they have looked like, to that person? Steve sitting, Bucky kneeling so close to him. It was nothing, but it was something to them, or Steve, at least. Body language alone could be enough.

“I understand,” Steve says.

Bucky nods and scans the field one more time. When he turns back to Steve, he says, “We’d better get to class.”

“Why?”

“The bell just rang.”

Steve hadn’t heard it.

“I’ll meet you in there,” Steve tells him. “I gotta go to the bathroom.”

“Alright.” Bucky smiles at him, his eyes still shining from his acceptance, but the hand he places on Steve’s shoulder is mournful and gentle. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Yeah, you have.”

“I haven’t. I swear. I don’t gotta reply until May. I got time.”

“Okay.”

People have started walking across the field, cutting across from the cafeteria to get to classes. Bucky takes his hand off Steve’s shoulder and steps back.

“See ya soon, Stevie.”

“See ya.”

He doesn’t go to the washroom. He goes straight home, telling his mom he’s not feeling well and laying on his bed.

On his front. Face turned towards the door. Shirtless.

If he closes his eyes it smells a little like Listerine and cigarettes.

What does this mean, what does this mean?

He knows. Of course, he knows.

* * *

 When he wakes up, he is drowning.

It is worse than before, but somehow it does not hurt as much.

Using the last of his breath, he calls out to his mother, hears her scramble for the telephone. The burning is loud but his nerve endings are scorched. Breathing is a concept and that’s okay. This must be what dying feels like.

He fights it. If he died, Bucky would go to England and never come back.


	2. Part Two

When he tells his mom he’s thinking about moving to England, she looks like she wants to slap him in the face.

“James Buchanan Barnes.”

“What, ma?”

She just shakes her head and says his full name a few more times before walking out of the room.

“I don’t think she knows if she’s thrilled or angry,” Rebecca says from the couch, lying down with her feet up, listening to the radio.

Bucky goes to sit on her legs, but she whips them away just in time. “What’s your reaction, huh? You gonna miss me?” he asks her.

“Nuh uh,” Rebecca says, shaking her head and turning up the volume on the radio. “I’ll be glad when you’re gone. Finally some peace and quiet.”

“Surprised you can hear the peace and quiet with that thing so loud.”

“And I’ll get the bigger room.”

“Who says you’d get my room? Mom’ll keep it as a shrine to me, I bet.”

“No way!”

“Why would ya want it, anyway? All the terrible things I’ve done to that room… you don’t wanna _know_ what I’ve got hidden in the closet…”

“ _Bucky_!” Rebecca cries, shoving him with her feet, kicking him until he falls off the couch. Bucky bats at her, laughing. “No fair! I’m almost fourteen! I need the big room!”

“Rebecca Buchanan Barnes, go to your room.”

“That’s not my middle name, that’s yours!”

“I forgot yours."

“Me too.”

His mom picks him up off the floor and says, “James Buchanan Barnes,” before pulling him into a hug.

“I think she’s thrilled,” Rebecca says.

“No kidding,” Bucky says, looking at her over his mom’s shoulder.

They eat dinner and settle into the living room, Rebecca on the phone, his mom knitting and Bucky studying. They don’t need to be in the same room for this, but this is how the Barnes family spends time together.

When he goes to sleep that night, nothing has changed.

He brushes his teeth and changes into his pyjamas and kisses his mom goodnight and tries to push Rebecca off her chair – she’s too strong for him these days, though, and manages to stay seated. He goes up to his room and draws the curtains, humming all the time, takes off his socks and climbs under the covers of his bed.

It comes when he looks sideways at the space on the floor he’d been sleeping when Steve was in this bed. Two beds that he and Steve had both been in. That can’t be a coincidence.

You can easily see the spot on the floor from the bed where he lies. Did Steve watch him, that night when they slept in this room? Probably. Considering what he knows now about Steve, most definitely.

Cambridge. He’d got into Cambridge today. If he wanted, he could live in England, with the rolling fields and the rain and the history and the lager. He could study at the same university as Isaac Newton, as kings and writers alike. If he wanted, that could happen. How many nights has he thought about how much he wants that?

Does he want it anymore, now that Steve wants him to stay?

Steve wants him to stay. Bucky’s been thinking about it all day. Steve had started _crying_ , for god’s sake. Clearly he wanted Bucky to stay. Is that enough?

Yes, it’s enough. It’s enough to keep Bucky here, the thought that Steve wants him so much it brings him to tears. It’s enough. But should it be?

He’s up for hours. It’s worse than usual, but it hurts less, because he’s thinking about Steve. Normally he can stop himself going down that train of thought, but he can’t help but feel like what happened today on the baseball field was a shift in their relationship. Empirical proof, right there in front of him, that Steve is as committed to this, as irrationally emotionally invested as Bucky. Just maybe not in the same way.

Maybe not. But maybe.

No, he can’t think like that. He can’t. If he thinks like that, there’s no way he’d go to England, or anywhere at all.

So he makes the decision to go. Put three thousand miles between him and Steve before he does anything stupid.

After that, he figures he’ll be able to stop thinking about it and go to sleep. The latter proves more difficult.

Just because his head is full doesn’t mean things fall out. He shakes and he turns and he starts crying but doesn’t know why. Again he promises himself to try and look up what’s wrong with him, try to find out what it is and if there’s a cure, knowing even as he promises that he’ll wake up tomorrow with more pressing things on his mind than himself.

He’s woken up at six a.m. by his mother shaking him awake with frantic eyes and shouting, “Wake up! Steve’s mother just called.”

Four words that snap Bucky awake in a second.

* * *

 

In the on call room, in the only time alone she’s had all day, Dr Carter puts her face in her hands and thinks about Steve Rogers.

The only case of asthma she’s ever been able to treat, and it’s only because he hadn’t been diagnosed before he’d been assigned to her. Even now, they want to take him out from under her, ship him off to psych or make him try the new blends of asthma cigarettes. They’ll use her youth as an excuse and any complaints she files would get lost in the post.

She tries. Every day she researches – why do allergy tablets have an effect in some patients and not others? Why only a mild relief? The formula isn’t right, it’s targeting the wrong thing, the wrong part of the disease. But it’s harder than it looks to create tablets from thin air. She’s trying, and she knows she’ll get it eventually, but Steve Rogers is unconscious downstairs and she doesn’t think she’ll get it in time. The attacks will get worse until one day they won’t get the oxygen to him in time.

Either that, or one of the other thousand things that are wrong with him will get him. But if it’s the asthma, it’s on Peggy’s head.

She tries to sleep in her brief forty-minute break but can’t bring herself to close her eyes.

* * *

The year is 1937. Himmler has confirmed that over eight thousand people are in concentration camps for “protective custody”. Hitler has withdrawn Germany officially from the Treaty of Versailles. President Roosevelt is frantically trying to appoint more Supreme Court Justices; public opinion is generally against him on this. 

Bucky listens to the radio in the waiting room and thinks that he has never been more afraid in his life.

At a little past seven, the nurse comes out and tells him he can go in, reminds him that Steve is still unconscious, that they’ve sedated him because it’s easier for him to breathe that way. She also tells him that he should try not to worry too much, that Steve’s in very good hands. Bucky resists the childish urge to tell her to go to hell.

Inside the hospital room, he can barely tell which one is Steve this time. Usually he can distinguish the bright eyes, the smile, the red cheeks from anywhere, from across a room, but none of those things are present on the Steve that his eyes eventually land on. He’s pale, he’s still, he’s asleep, he couldn’t be woken if Bucky tried. Tears spring to his eyes, but he blinks them away when he sees Steve’s mother sitting on a chair next to the bed, holding Steve’s hand.

She hasn’t spotted him back, sits reading from a book that Bucky recognises as their favourite poetry book. Does she think that he’ll recognise the sounds and wake up? Or is she just trying to comfort him, wherever his mind is? It could be either one.

 _“Fortune with Health stands at debate._  
_The fall is grievous from aloft.  
_ _And sure, it thunders through the realms.”_

Bucky’s blood thunders in his ears. He is hitting the ground over and over. He would give anything in the world, all of his possessions, everything he has, for Steve to open his eyes.

Sarah finishes the poem and turns to Bucky with a small smile, calm and unsurprised. “James. You’re earlier than I thought you would be.”

“Am I really?”

“No.”

Bucky takes the chair on Steve’s right side, opposite Sarah. He’s aware of how many doctors there are in the room, how many people that are awake and could be listening.

“Do they know what it is?” Bucky asks her, staring down at Steve’s soft hair on his forehead. He feels like he should brush it away, because Steve would, if he was awake. But he just stares at it. Eventually Sarah moves it for him.

“They do.”

“They’ve known for a while, haven’t they?”

Sarah nods.

“He didn’t tell me. I told him he didn’t have to. I regret that now,” Bucky tells her, voice quiet and swollen.

“Do you want me to tell you?”

Bucky swallows, thick and loud. “Would you?”

“Everything, or just this?”

“Everything.”

“High blood pressure. Heart trouble. Sinusitis. Chronic colds. Fatigue.” She lists them off without pausing for breath, as if they are always on the forefront of her mind.

“Which one is this?”

“Asthma.”

Bucky’s never heard of it. “What is that?”

“It means he has trouble breathing. That it hurts a lot of the time.”

Of course. “Is it curable?”

“No.”

“What about treatable?”

“No.”

Bucky watches Steve’s chest rise and fall; quick and ragged, followed by a pause so long that concern grows in him, followed by another quick and ragged breath. He imagines Steve breathing like that every day of his life, concealing it when he is awake, inhaling to gather the breath to tell Bucky one of his jokes no matter how much it hurt. Not just difficulty breathing. Pain. How did Bucky not notice that Steve was in pain?

“Have you spoken to the doctor yet?” Bucky asks.

“No. She hasn’t come by yet.”

“She?”

Sarah purses her lips. “Yes, she.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just uncommon. It’s good. I think I met her before, she’s a nice lady.”

Sarah just changes the subject, which Bucky takes as a pardon. “She’s going to come and talk to me any minute.”

“Should I go? You’re not meant to say that kinda stuff in front of non-relatives.”

“What are you talking about? James, you’re his brother. That counts as a relative.”

Bucky narrows his eyes at her blank expression. “It does?”

“Yes, it does.”

Dr Carter is there in seven minutes, her white coat wrinkled on one side and her eyes bagged. Bucky’s instinct is to smile at her, but his face won’t do it.

“I’m Dr Carter,” she introduces herself, extending her hand first to Sarah and then to Bucky. “I’m Steve’s physician.”

“Nice to finally meet you,” Sarah tells her.

“Likewise.”

“This is Steve’s brother, James.”

Dr Carter looks between the two of them and smiles. “I can see the resemblance.”

Bucky remembers when he’d arrived at the hospital the first time Steve had an attack, how she’d taken him by his shoulders and told him to breathe with unflinching eye contact. How she’d praised him for forcing them to send an ambulance, told him he’d saved Steve’s life. He remembers breaking down and crying right in front of her when she said that.

He’d waited outside, clearly not family. But if Dr Carter recognises him from before as ‘Bucky’, she doesn’t say anything to him now as ‘James’.

They launch into a conversation about Steve’s blood pressure and vitals, and after five seconds Bucky recognises that he doesn’t know what any of it means, so he keeps watching Steve breathe, tries to hold his breath during those long pauses and only breathe again when Steve does. After ten seconds it’s too much for him, he feels like he’s bursting, he has to stop.

When Dr Carter starts talking about experimental treatments, Bucky tunes back in. She says she’s working very hard on a treatment, and she won’t rest until she finds one. This seems to give Sarah some comfort. Bucky, however, can see in the dark circles and premature wrinkles on the young doctor’s face that she’s been trying for years already with nothing to show for it. But he doesn’t mention this to Sarah.

The doctor leaves soon after and Sarah and Bucky are left alone again. He doesn’t like being alone with her. He doesn’t even like looking at her, because that means she’s looking at him, too, and when she looks at him she gains ammunition.

“Thank you for calling my… uh, Bucky’s mom,” Bucky tells her, keeping up the charade that she’s his mom and Steve, short blonde Steve, is somehow his brother.

“That’s alright.” Sarah picks up Steve’s hand again and strokes her thumb over the back of it. “I knew you’d want to be here.”

In a way, he’s glad she knows, because otherwise she wouldn’t have called him. In a much more real way, it’s another threat.

“Your brother.” Sarah can’t help but glance around her and lower her voice a fraction, despite the cloak of the charade. “You love him. Don’t you?”

Bucky takes Steve’s other hand, under the covers. It’s cold, and under Bucky’s hot touch, it burns.

“He’s my best friend,” Bucky replies.

“May I take that as a yes?”

“You can take it however you wanna take it.”

Bucky imagines being three thousand miles away, getting that letter from Sarah, _Steve’s in hospital, how soon can you get here?_ And Bucky answering, _years._ Sitting in some fancy dorm room while Steve takes too long to breathe. A letter coming through a week, two weeks late, with the first line reading, _Sorry for the delay. It was a bad one. How’s the rain?_

He keeps a hold of Steve’s hand even after Sarah shoots him a warning look. “What?” he asks, innocent. “He’s my little brother. I don’t have to let go.”

* * *

After a little while, Bucky has to leave. School starts at eight.

Dr Carter tells them that Steve will probably wake up at around nine.

Bucky can stand to skip a few classes.

* * *

At half past eight, Sarah wheels herself to the bathroom. Bucky wonders why they don’t have one of those things in the Rogers household. They’re probably expensive. Bucky vows to steal one for them. 

“Mmm.”

Bucky looks behind him for the source of the sound, looks around the room, starts frowning when he can’t see anyone making noise.

“Down here.”

Steve’s voice is slurred and his eyes are barely open, his mouth drooping in a half-formed smile. Bucky’s heart skips a beat so long that he sees spots.

“I thought you promised not to do this to me again,” Bucky says, struggling to keep his voice even.

“I don’t remember promising that.”

“It was implied.”

Steve’s dopey smile twitches. “Can you give me a pass on this one?”

“Fine, but only ‘cause you look so pathetic.”

Steve doesn’t react to that, doesn’t even try to laugh, probably because it’s not funny. It’s true. He’s pale as shit and so drugged up that he can barely keep his eyes open. Bucky’s never seen Steve like this, never seen anything but the sunny smiles, the bashful expressions, the way his eyes narrow when he’s trying to land a joke. Selfishly, he wishes for the Steve he knows to come back. But, he reminds himself, this is new information. He now knows more about how Steve’s face works, how his body reacts to things. That’s good. There’s more to Steve than Bucky knows. Seeing him different, though, makes Bucky realise just how consistent he is. Maybe that’s why he likes him so much.

“Is my mom here?” Steve asks.

“She went to the bathroom. They got her a wheelchair.”

“We always wanted one of those. Too expensive.”

“She wanted to be here when you woke up.”

Steve winces. “Dammit. She’s gonna be mad.”

“Can’t you just, like, shut your eyes and pretend to wake up when she comes back?”

“I can’t do that.”

Bucky laughs. “Moral objection?”

“No, I can’t. It’s not believable. I can’t act.”

Something clicks in Bucky’s head and it takes him a second to realise what it is. “So you just keep pretendin’ to be asleep?”

“What?”

Too obvious. Change the subject. “Maybe you should go back to sleep. You look like you need it.”

Steve takes a deep, slow breath and barely manages to hold it for two seconds before it rushes back out of him. He closes his eyes. “’M fine. I could…”

“Could what? Huh?” Bucky pokes as he watches Steve start to drift off. Steve mumbles something else, but he’s asleep before Bucky could ask him what it was.

There’s beeping and groaning and nurses talking in hushed voices, but there’s also silence. Steve’s breathing is better, a little more even than before. From the slow, steady pace, he’s definitely asleep. But how would Bucky know that for sure? How many times has Bucky thought Steve was asleep, but he was lying with his eyes closed, unable to respond to Bucky’s whispers?

He knows how many times. Just that one, in this very hospital.

If Steve was awake, then he knows.

That’s two Rogers’ who know a secret he struggles admitting to himself. That family is trouble to him, he knows it. But here he sits by Steve’s bedside, waiting for Sarah to return.

Experimentally, he lays his hand over Steve’s arm, the thin white blanket a barrier between their skin. No change from Steve.

He moves his hand, puts it over Steve’s. No response.

As fast as he can without waking Steve, Bucky brushes away Steve’s hair from where it’s fallen down onto his forehead. It’s a gesture that could pass as brotherly, in theory, and it doesn’t arouse anything from the other people in the ward. So he does it again.

His fingers slip into the dark blonde hair and he fights the urge to close his eyes. Steve’s short haircut means he doesn’t often have hair falling onto his face, but his mother was supposed to cut his hair tomorrow, so it’s the longest Bucky’s ever seen it. He forces his hand to keep moving, to not linger like he wants to, to be slightly callous enough to pass as a gesture of male friendship, not the gesture he’s been thinking about doing for weeks.

As he leans forwards, his own, longer hair gets into his eyes. He pushes it back, and his thoughts touch on the idea that Steve had thought about doing that to him. Bucky’s hair is so unruly at times, it’s practically an open invitation.

He runs his fingers through Steve’s hair one more time, and whispers, “Sweet dreams.”

If Steve is awake, he doesn’t reply.

* * *

Peggy splashes her face with cold water and stares at herself in the mirror of the small washroom of the hospital. It’s a surprise to her these days, the way she looks; from what she’s had to do, she would have thought she’d be uglier, from the things she’s seen, she would have thought she’d been older. The bright, beautiful face looking back at her seems out of place. She can’t look at it for too long. 

An orderly informed her that Steve Rogers is awake. She has to tell him that everything is going wrong. How old is he? Seventeen? How old is she? Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight? What’s the date? Has it been her birthday yet? Does it matter?

At least she’s made a decision on his treatment. Without a doubt, if she sent him home, he would have another attack in the next few weeks, a worse one. He’d barely got to hospital in time this morning – she doesn’t think he’d be as lucky next time.

So, solution. He stays in hospital. He stays in hospital where she can always bring him back, and he stays here until she finds a treatment.

It could be years. But they’re years he won’t have if she lets him leave.

Peggy leaves the washroom to go and tell a teenager that he won’t be able to graduate high school or go to college or even go out for his birthday. She prays to God that their health insurance is good.

* * *

Bucky is there when the doctor tells Steve and his mother the news. It’s awkward, because he’s not a part of the family, but more awkward because he kind of _is_ , and _more_ awkward because he literally has to pretend to be. Dr Carter is talking to all three of them like they’re a family. Bucky had thought she’d cottoned on that it was a ruse. Maybe she did, but she didn’t care. 

When she tells Steve that he’ll have to stay in hospital for an indefinite amount of time, or risk everything, Steve doesn’t react. Bucky looks at him, sees Sarah looking at him too. Steve just takes a relatively deep breath in through his nose and nods a few times. “Okay,” he says. It’s the same way he says “okay” when Bucky tells him what they’re having for dinner, or when he says he’s going to class, boring normal things that don’t ruin your life.

Just this morning Steve had told him how much he wants to leave, to finally get round to drawing all the things he’s been thinking about drawing, renewed and revitalised by his ‘near death experience’. Bucky had slapped his arm and said it was hardly a ‘near death experience’, he just passed out a little, no big deal. Sarah told him to stop hitting his brother when he’s in hospital.

The doctor leaves soon after this, ducking out as modestly as she can to give them time on their own. Bucky watches her leave, notes her hands shaking before she stuffs them in the pockets of her coat.

Sarah takes Steve’s hand and presses it to her cheek. “It’ll be okay,” she tells him, kissing his hand before pressing it back to her face. “I’ll be okay.”

Steve shakes his head. “No.”

“Steve, I can manage.”

“I’m not doing it.”

“What?” Bucky blurts. He hadn’t even considered for a second that Steve might not do what the doctor told him.

Steve’s jaw is set in a tight line, so tight that it might stir something in Bucky at any moment but this. “I’m not doing it,” Steve repeats, voice firmer.

“That’s crazy!” Bucky cries, and a few people in the ward turn to look at them. Steve’s eyes flash a warning and Bucky tries to keep his voice down. “You gotta do what the doc said!”

“No, I don’t.”

“Like hell you don’t! She’s a fuckin’ doctor! She said if you don’t do this you could _die_!”

“James,” Sarah says, holding out her palms to steady him. “I agree, but I think you need to calm down.”

“It’s my decision,” Steve says, folding his arms across his chest and raising his chin, making sure his mom knows he means business in every way possible. “I’m not doing it. I’m not leavin’ you on your own for what’s probably gonna end up bein’ years. It’s either you or me, and I pick you.”

Bucky stands, bursts out of his chair so suddenly that it skids a metre behind him. He wants to say that no, no one’s life is worth Steve’s, nothing is more important than Steve, if Steve dies then so will all the flowers and the trees and the animals and the sun will go out and the moon will dissolve into a thousand little pieces. If Steve dies then Bucky probably will too. Nothing else would make sense. A world without Steve but with everything else still living? Illogical.

But Sarah is right there. He can’t say, _let your mom fend for herself because you’re more important,_ when his mom is right there. Plus, everyone in the ward is staring at him now, the nurses in their ironed hats and the patients in their starched beds. It’s too much attention and he sits back down immediately, puts his face in one hand and uses the other to grab the side of the bed to steady himself. He asks himself, _am I overreacting? Will I regret this later?_ But is there such thing as an overreaction to Steve?

He feels warmth, comfort, suddenly, and it takes him a moment to realise it’s coming from a physical point. There’s a hand on his hand. Bucky looks up and Steve’s put his hand on his.

Bucky looks at Steve with surprise and confusion, mouth open and eyes wide and brow furrowed, because that’s not what they do. Never in public. Never while they think the other is awake. Never overtly and unabashedly referencing the thing that they both know but dare not mention. Steve’s eyes are steady and calm – consistent. Tired, but calm, and sad.

“It’ll be okay,” Steve says, and Bucky flips his hand over, squeezes Steve’s as hard as he dares and stares into his blue eyes like they’re the sky and he’s lying on his back on a summer’s day.

“Yes it will.” Sarah’s quiet voice barely cuts through the moment. “Because you are staying here.”

Steve just shakes his head. Bucky can feel Steve’s hand start to sweat against his own.

“You are a minor,” Sarah continues. “I am your mother. It’s not up to you.”

Finally, Steve tears his eyes away. “What?”

“It’s not your decision.”

“Mom.”

Sarah sets her face in a familiar expression, the one he’d seen on Steve only moments earlier. Sheer determination. “Don’t bother arguing. I’m going to go and fill out the paperwork now.” And she wheels herself away.

Steve watches her leave the ward. He squeezes his eyes shut and squeezes Bucky’s hand. “Bet you’re happy,” he mutters.

“Not happy. Relieved, sure, but not happy.”

Without Sarah there, they don’t look like a family. They look dangerous and perverse. But Bucky doesn’t want to be the one to take his hand away, when Steve is feeling so much.

“I’m eighteen in three months,” Steve says, his free hand rubbing at his forehead, presumably in an attempt to alleviate a headache. “Then I can leave.”

“Why do you wanna?” Bucky asks, and it comes out quieter than it needs to be, maybe because he suspects Steve’s answer will have to be quiet, too. “Why do you wanna leave? You heard what she said, right? Next time you can’t breathe-”

“Yeah, I heard.” Steve slides his other hand under Bucky’s, sandwiching it in his hot sweat, looking at him under long blonde eyelashes. “But I can’t just leave her.”

“I could help out. We did alright the last time you were in this place, didn’t we?”

“That was for one night. You think you could go round there, three times a day, for years? You really think you could do that?”

This is not a time for anything but honesty. “Yeah. For you. I’d do it.”

“Even when you’re in college? In England?”

It bothers Steve. He can tell for sure now. He couldn’t be certain yesterday on the baseball field, Steve had managed to cover it up pretty well, as well as someone as transparent as Steve could. But it’s for sure now. Just saying it out loud makes Steve wince.

“Forget it,” Steve says, shaking his head, chastising himself at his obvious display of emotion. “Just – let’s drop it.”

Bucky had made the decision to go to England. He’d made the decision before he’d got the phone call. What were his options? Leave Steve. Stay with Steve and give up on his dream. Or the third option that was becoming more appealing and more far away by the second.

“I want you to come with me,” Bucky tells Steve, softly.

“To college?”

“To England. I know you can’t,” he says before Steve can say it. “I know you can’t. But that’s what I want. And I felt like that’s something you should know.”

Steve doesn’t smile. “I want that too.”

“Okay.”

He makes the decision to stay. He also makes the decision not to tell Steve until it’s too late to turn back.

Maybe Steve won’t be good for him after all.

* * *

That night he goes home to sleep. Steve’s mother stays with him, settles in on the bed with him like Bucky had done before. Looking it at now, with two people inside, there’s no way there’s enough room, no way Steve could have ever thought that, no way Bucky should have believed him.

He drives home, having taken full custody of the car these days out of necessity and comfort, and so far his mother hasn’t complained, so he plans on using it until she does. But seeing as he mostly plans on using it to visit Steve, he doesn’t think she’ll complain for a while.

When he gets home he’s immediately bombarded with questions from Rebecca. “How’s Steve?” she asks as soon as the door closes behind him. “Is he okay? Is he dead? Is this cos he’s so little?” Bucky replies, “He’s okay. He’s not dead. Stop sayin’ he’s little, he’s taller than _you_.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s not?”

“No!”

“Oh.”

“Can I see him?”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Bucky’s mom says. “He probably isn’t allowed any visitors.”

“Yeah, it’s family only, sorry kiddo,” Bucky tells Rebecca, and she pouts.

“But I wanna see him! How come _you_ got to see him? You ain’t his family!”

Bucky’s mom raises an eyebrow. “Yes, how is that?”

Bucky shrugs. “Guess they assumed we were brothers or somethin’.”

“Because you look so similar.”

“Sure.”

His mom rolls her eyes and stands up from where she sits on the sofa. “Well, I’m going to bed. Bucky, you should go to bed too. You’ve been up for a long time.”

Bucky gives her his most adult-charming smile. “What’s youth good for, if not staying awake for twenty hours?”

“Put that away,” Rebecca groans, getting up to cover his mouth with her hand. “You look like an asshole.”

“Language, Rebecca!” his mother scolds.

“Yeah!” Bucky says after prying Rebecca’s hand from his face. “Mind your goddamn language!”

“Bucky! Alright, now you’re both going to bed.”

“Mom!” Rebecca moans, high pitched and childish, and Bucky mocks, “Moooom!”

But they go, because it’s easier. Bucky knows Rebecca will be reading magazines in her room for hours, anyway. And he knows he’ll be up for hours, too.

Before he goes to bed, he telephones Natasha to let her know the news about Steve. She’s the one who seems to like Steve the most, so he tells her and asks her to tell the others sometime, just so they’re up to date, so they know Steve, and Bucky, aren’t going to be around for a while.

“I want to see him,” Natasha says immediately.

“It’s family only.”

“You’re not his family.”

“What are you talkin’ about? I’m his brother. James Rogers.”

“And I’m his Russian sister. Natasha Rogers.”

“Why would he have a Russian sister?”

“I was switched at birth. Hospital mix up. You know how tired nurses can get.”

“I doubt the hospital staff will buy your hospital mix up story. But visiting hours are Friday, you can come then.”

“Tomorrow is Thursday, right?”

It takes Bucky a second. “Yeah. I think.”

“Okay. Friday. Can the others come?”

“If they agree not to be weird, then yeah. Maybe gag Scott.”

“Got it.”

“And I’ll have to ask Steve’s permission.”

“Why wouldn’t he want us there?”

“He’s really sick, Nat.”

Quiet on the line for a moment. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I dunno. It’s complicated. They don’t know whether we should have hope or not. He’s got this really great doctor, but the disease he has, they don’t know shit about it.”

“I’m sorry, Bucky.”  
  
He doesn’t bother pretending that he doesn’t need her sympathy. “Thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

He hangs up the phone and brushes his teeth and washes his face and changes into his pyjamas and slides into bed.

He tells himself not to think about Steve. Last night was the exception, with lots to process and think about. Now, there’s nothing to process. Nothing to think about. Just cold hard facts and things that he daren’t consider.

But he finds he has nothing else to think about. His brain turns over the day in search of a topic, but it’s just his thoughts telling him that they’ve come up with nothing.

With his mind empty, he doesn’t fall asleep until four in the morning. 

* * *

 

When Bucky gets to the hospital the next day, Sarah isn’t there. Bucky assumes that she’s just in the bathroom, but her coat is gone, too, the brown one that’s been resting on the bedside table since Steve got here.

“Where’s your mom?” Bucky asks as he takes his place on Steve’s right, in the uncomfortable wooden chair that’s been his spot since yesterday.

“She went home to get some stuff.”

“How did…”

“The doctor gave her a ride.”

Bucky frowns.

“I know,” Steve says. “But she said she had some time and she insisted.”

“Wow. What a nice lady.”

“So you’re not goin’ to school today either?” Steve asks, propping himself up on a pillow and shifting his butt around until he’s comfortable. There’s a tiny bit more colour on his cheeks since yesterday, but not enough to give Bucky any relief.

Bucky slips his backpack off his shoulder and pulls out a thick notebook full of notes. “All we do there is go back over everythin’ we’ve already learned. I can do that here. I probably got more information in this notebook than the teachers do.”

“Did you let Clint know he can stop making notes?”

“Nah. The only time that kid concentrates is when he thinks I’ll whoop his ass if he doesn’t. It’d actually be better for both of us if I stayed out of school for a while.”

“And your mom doesn’t mind?”

“Not really.”

“I’m assuming she doesn’t know.”

Bucky shrugs. “You’re free to assume whatever you like. Free country. For now,” he adds in an ominous voice, just cos he knows it’ll make Steve laugh.

“When’s your mom gonna be back, d’ya think?”

“Probably like an hour.”

Bucky nods. They haven’t been alone for this long since Bucky’d got accepted into college. He’s not quite sure how to use this time.

He stares down at the open pages of his notebook for lack of anything else to do. But he’s sleep deprived. Only managed three hours of sleep, which is less than his usual five or so. His vision blurs a little and his eyelids flutter. He has to change the way he’s sitting on the chair every thirty seconds to wake himself up.

“You alright?” Steve asks, watching him move, concern in his voice.

“I’m good. Just tired.”

“How come?”

“Not enough sleep.”

“Duh. But why not?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Don’t ya think this is the least of your concerns right now?”

“No. I’m bein’ taken care of. Worryin’ about myself won’t do any good.”

“You’re worryin’ about me? C’mon, stop it.” Bucky feels himself grow uncomfortable, feels it pull at his features until he can’t look Steve in the eye. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

“You’re tired a lot,” Steve says. It’s a simple observation, but the way he says it sets off alarms in Bucky’s head. He’s been observed.

“So’s everyone.”

“No they’re not.”

“I dunno what to tell you,” Bucky says, almost snapping but managing to keep his voice level and muted, because they’re surrounded by people, always surrounded by people when they’re here. “What d’you want me to say, huh?”

“Nothin’,” Steve says, a little hurt in his voice that sends waves of remorse through Bucky. “I just noticed, is all.”

Bucky reaches over and pats Steve on the forearm, by his wrist, the closest he could get to his hand. The gesture is intended as a, _let’s just change the subject._ But he hears Steve’s breathing stop when he touches him, and Bucky is reminded of that other thing. The thing that they will never talk about. Bucky can’t even tell him why he doesn’t sleep. The chances of him telling Steve anything to do with how he feels about him are very slim.

But then again, he’s changed so much since meeting Steve. Sometimes he’s happy. Sometimes he’s not thinking about whatever’s wrong with him. Who knows what else Steve could get him to do?

“Is all,” Bucky says, drawing his hand back, and Steve laughs.

“Oh, Natasha and the others wanna come visit tomorrow,” Bucky tells him, relaxing back in his chair and putting his feet up on Steve’s bed, comfortable with the new subject. “That alright?”

“No,” Steve says.

“Alright, so I’ll pick them up around ten so we should be here around eleven.”

“I said no.”

Bucky blinks. “You did? Why?”

Steve rolls his eyes. He looks pissed. Bucky’s never seen him pissed before. Honestly, he kind of likes it. “Cos I look like shit. Look at me, I’m in hospital. There are tubes comin’ outta me. I wish you hadn’t told ‘em at all.”

“But they’re your friends.”

“They’re _your_ friends.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows with the comment that wasn’t meant to hurt him but stings anyway. “Well, _they_ think they’re your friends, and they wanna come visit.”

“Just tell them it’s family only.”

“I already told ‘em visitors are allowed on Fridays.”

“God, why’d you do that?” Steve shakes his head, his cheeks growing a little pink. “Now they’re gonna think I’m an asshole if I don’t let ‘em come.”

“I can say it was my mistake,” Bucky suggests. “That visitors aren’t allowed at all. That I was thinkin’ of the wrong hospital or somethin’. Hey.” He pauses until Steve looks at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I got no place speaking for you like that.”

Steve’s face softens and he sighs. “It’s okay. I’m just mad at myself, I guess. I get kinda… self-conscious about this kinda thing. I wish I was more like you.”

Bucky scoffs a laugh and looks at Steve with disbelief. “Why?”

“Your confidence.”

“My _confidence_?”

Steve gives him a confused smile, his eyes crinkling up at the corners as he peers at Bucky. “Well, yeah. The way you talk to people – you can _do_ it, you know? You just… you really seem as if you like yourself.”

This is not at all true. He asks Steve, “You don’t like yourself?”

“I like myself fine. I just can’t do what you do.”

“Well, you won _me_ over, didn’t ya?”

He wasn’t meant to be thinking about it any longer. Every conversation he has, his mind comes back to this. How long can they go without bringing it up? How long until it catches up with them?

Steve chuckles. “Guess so. But that’s different.”

_Different how?_

But he says, “You wanna study with me?”

Steve’s face is its usual paper-white as he grins at Bucky, looking for once like he’s actually seventeen. “Nope. I ain’t gonna graduate. So I ain’t takin’ any exams.”

“Really?”

“Yep!”

“And you’re _happy_ about that?”

“Damn right. I don’t gotta study, or think about studyin’, or even _look_ at that big fat notebook of yours.”

“Steve!” Bucky cries in confusion, throwing up his hands and making Steve laugh. “You’re not gonna graduate high school!”

“I’m not goin’ to college, so what’s the point?”

“Since _when_ are you not goin’ to college?”

Steve raises his arms and gestures all around him, peering at Bucky with mocking condescension. “Uh… since this. Not like I was gonna go anyway, though. No way I can leave my mom alone for that long.”

“You never told me that,” Bucky says, shoving Steve’s outstretched arms until he puts them down.

“I didn’t? I meant to.”

Bucky raises one eyebrow.

“Okay, I wasn’t gonna. I knew you’d disapprove. But we’re ignoring the bigger issue here. I didn’t know you could raise one eyebrow.”

“I can move my ears too.”

“No _way_.”

Bucky wiggles his ears and Steve loses his shit. Bucky doesn’t push him on the issue. He’d kind of assumed Steve wasn’t going to college; he’d never seemed too keen on the idea, never enjoyed school at all. He was too much of a free spirit, one of those people who had too much inside of them for rules. Bucky knows he’s gonna be thinking for hours about how Steve wants to be like him. Previously, he’d have thought that something like this meant Steve doesn’t know Bucky at all. But Steve gets him like no one else does. And he still thinks he’s great. It’s a weird feeling. But a good one.

Steve quizzes Bucky on the stages of mitosis. When Sarah comes back, she’s got armfuls of books and a suitcase full of jackets and scarves.

“I am not in the least surprised,” Steve says, seeing what she’s brought.

“I am,” Bucky says. “I didn’t know you had a sweater with kittens on it.”

Steve’s eyes widen and he looks down to where the sweater lays in the case. “Mom!” he yells. “Why!”

“It’s your favourite!”

“It was my favourite when I was seven!”

“I like it,” Bucky tells him, picking it up and laying it on his chest. It doesn’t even reach his armpits. “Kittens are good. Sweaters are good. What’s the problem?”

Steve puts his face in his hands while Sarah and Bucky laugh. Sarah convinces Bucky to try the sweater on – “it’s stretchy, don’t worry” – and just at that moment, Dr Carter comes along, tells him that she’s seen better looking sweaters on the psych patients, and that’s how the ‘Rogers family’ spends their morning in hospital, Bucky posing while Steve cheers, Steve telling him to pose in such ridiculous ways that Bucky starts crying with laughter.

* * *

 As the days pass, it’s hard to get time alone. Sarah is always there, in her beige knit cardigan and endless blankets, wrapping a scarf around Steve’s neck every time he does so much as breathe too slowly.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, doesn’t complain, because she’s Steve’s mother, she has way more of a right to be here than he does, and she’s been kind enough and understanding enough to let him come by as much as he is. That’s not something a lot of people would do, especially considering what Sarah knows about Bucky. Any other parent would ban Steve from seeing Bucky, maybe pull him out of school, maybe report Bucky to the police. But Sarah is more understanding than most. Bucky wonders briefly, looking at her wrapping Steve in his third layer, what she’s been through to make her so open-mindedly kind.

On Friday he goes back to school. He still maintains that he can learn more on his own than in a classroom surrounded by idiots, but they still take attendance, and that’s something that goes on your permanent record. “Besides,” Steve says, “I’m getting sick of your face.”

He arrives at eight o’clock, backpack on and pants pressed. The school isn’t a bad one, one of the best public schools in Brooklyn, one of those buildings with the red brick that are perpetually cold. The school’s crest, a shield, is painted all over the walls on the inside. Bucky passes five of them on his way to homeroom.

When Bucky’s in his seat, Clint spins around in his chair and hands him twenty pieces of paper. “Your notes.”

“Thanks, man.” Bucky gives him a quarter.

“Nuh-uh. This was two days. Fifty cents.”

Bucky hands over a second quarter. “How’s your dad?”

“He’s fine. Listens to the radio too much.”

“Don’t we all.”

At lunch he sits in the cafeteria with the boys on the baseball team. There’s an outcry as he sits down, Tony laughing and crying, “The prodigal son returns! It’s been months! Not sitting with your boyfriend today?”

Bucky laughs along and shakes his head. “Not today. Now I gotta deal with your shit all over again. What kind of facial hair are you failing to grow this week, Tony?”

The other boys laugh as Tony strokes his wispy moustache and says, “Fuck you, I’m gonna look like Walt Disney.”

“Why would ya wanna look like Walt Disney? Why not William Powell? Same moustache.”

“Are you kiddin’? Walt Disney’s a genius. Head of a thousand-dollar empire. Why would I wanna look like an actor when I can look like a business mogul?”

“A business what?” Peter asks, shovelling mashed potato into his mouth. “Isn’t that the kid from Jungle Book?”

“That’s Mowgli,” Bucky tells him, adopting his most condescending tone because he knows it’ll make everyone laugh.

“You can’t have a business Mowgli,” Clint says to Tony. “He was raised in the jungle. He doesn’t know anything about the free market.”

“I’m surrounded by idiots,” Tony says, and Peter throws a roll at him and boos.

Bucky relaxes. He’d figured this would be harder. But there’s a routine here, a way to please everyone. Maybe Steve was right, maybe he is good with people.

Clint on his right, Peter on his left, Tony in front of him, all talking about different things. He pokes his fork at his meatloaf and tries to keep up. Okay, Peter’s talking about a girl. No, a car. No… a girl in a car. He keeps using the pronoun ‘she’ and it’s all getting confusing. Tony’s got relationship issues again; his girlfriend broke up with him yesterday, caught him muttering another girl’s name in his sleep, even though “me and Pepper are just friends! I don’t know what she’s worried about!” Clint’s talking… oh, he’s talking to Bucky.

“And my dad said to my ma that they don’t let you fight if you’re over forty-one, so if the war holds on three more years, he won’t have to go.”

“I don’t think it’s gonna hold out that long.”

“It could,” Clint says, hunching over his tray. “You don’t know.”

“You’re right. Sorry, man.”

“It’s alright. It’s just scary.” Clint shakes his head. “Me and my dad both havin’ to go. My ma’d be all on her own.”

“Guess we gotta keep prayin’.” Bucky claps Clint on the shoulder and Clint smiles. “Now, is it just me, or is this meatloaf even worse than I remember?”

“It’s quantifiably worse,” Tony tells him, leaning across the table to join the conversation.

“Quantifiable, eh? What unit of measurement are ya usin’ there?” Bucky asks him.

“Common sense, pal.”

After school, Bucky walks out, chatting to Peter, who’s trying to convince him that he saw a UFO in his garden last night – “I’m telling you, Bucky, they tried to _abduct_ me. I mean, not directly, but I could see from the twinkle in its eye, in the spaceship’s eye, that he wanted to abduct me.”

“Peter, I don’t think spaceships have eyes.”

“Hey, I’m the expert here. It had eyes. I think it winked at me at one point.”

Mid-conversation, Bucky spots the redhead leaning on the wall outside the building, realises why so many wolf-whistles are suddenly filling the air. He tells Peter he’ll see him tomorrow and walks towards Natasha.

“You’re four minutes late,” Nat tells him, her thick accent turning heads and causing whispers. “Talking to the teacher about extra work, I assume?”

“Actually, I was returning some books to the library.”

Natasha laughs, her head tipping back, hair spilling down her back. “You are such a nerd.”

They start walking, the easy, slow pace of a long friendship, Bucky idling along at a glacial pace to accommodate the length of Natasha’s legs.

“What are you doin’ here?” Bucky asks her, because it’s not a common thing for him to see her like this. Her classes end only half an hour before his; she must have caught the first bus available to be here in time, so it must be important.

“I want to see Steve. I like him.”

“I told you, I got the visiting hours wrong.”

“No. I called the hospital. You got them right. It’s Steve that’s the problem. Am I wrong?”

Loyalties pull Bucky’s arms in two different directions. But he’s been made. “Yeah, fine. He doesn’t want visitors. I get it though. He’s not in good shape.”

“But he’s going to be in there for months, no?”

Bucky sighs, scrubs the back of his neck with his hand. “Yeah. I’m not saying never. He’s just… it’s a new situation. He needs to adjust.”

“Scott hasn’t stopped pestering me.”

“Tell him to pester me instead. That shouldn’t be on you.”

“What about Sam? He keeps asking, too. But he does it in small ways. Is Steve coming on Sunday? Is this illness from the papers the same illness Steve has? Things like that. It’s cute.”

Bucky laughs. “That’s nice. I’m glad you guys like him.”

“We don’t just like him, we _miss_ him. Make sure you tell him that.”

“I will.” He pauses for effect. “Speaking of Sam…”

Natasha quirks an eyebrow and looks sideways at him. “Yes?”

“Did he hear back from Paris?”

“Yes.”

“Did he get in?”

Natasha lights a cigarette and takes a long drag before answering, “Yes.”

“What are your emotions on this?”

She hugs her arms around herself and looks off into the distance, her sharp tone cutting through the noise of the busy street. “So I’m not allowed to ask about Steve, but you’re allowed to ask about Sam?”

“You’ve been asking about Steve this whole time.”

“You know the way in which I mean.”

Bucky almost laughs. “God, is it that obvious?”

“Bucky. You haven’t made a new friend in seven years. Obviously there’s got to be something special about this one.” She gives him a smile, through her glare. “Don’t worry. We approve.”

“If only it were that easy,” Bucky says, and Natasha’s smile fades.

“Alright,” Bucky says, clapping his hands together, making Natasha flinch. “We addressed Steve. Now can we address Sam?”

Stony silence in response.

Then, “It’s been years. I have given up.”

They reach Bucky’s door and they linger, loitering youths smoking roll-ups against a brick wall. “Never give up,” Bucky tells her.

“You say that. But would you take your own advice? If I said never give up, would you do it?”

“It’s different,” Bucky reminds her.

“It’s not so different,” Natasha mutters. “We are all at risk. We are all playing with fire.”

“Stop being so enigmatic, you’re creeping me out.”

Nat laughs and flicks her cigarette butt at his shoes. “Sorry. Can’t help it. Too sexy.”

They part ways as Bucky heads inside, but not before Bucky realises that after all this time, he really doesn’t know all that much about Natasha, what’s going on inside her head. Why she always seems to be running. Why she always seems to need a friend. He tells himself that that friend is going to be him.

* * *

When he gets to the hospital that afternoon, Sarah is there, reading a book to Steve, who lies with his eyes closed under three blankets and wearing a woolly hat.

“You guys do know that it’s April, right?” Bucky whispers as he approaches, in case Steve is asleep. Sarah puts her finger to her lips, so he drags his chair over to her side of the bed so they can talk quietly.

“It’s because he’s so skinny,” Sarah tells him, looking to Steve with old, well-worn concern. “He’s always cold. The illness just makes it worse. How was school?”

“Boring. They’re just prepping us for exams. Should be over in a couple weeks.”

“That’s good,” Sarah nods. “Are you going to try and get a summer job?”

“Yeah. Last few summers I’ve been working down at the docks, just manual labour to earn a bit of cash. Gonna see if I can pick that back up again.”

“What would your hours be?”

“Usually eight til three, Monday to Saturday.”

“That’s a lot.”

“The fishing business waits for no-one, ma’am.”

Sarah puts the book down and picks up her knitting. Bucky eyes the cover: _The Lord of the Rings._

“Hey, I’ve read that,” Bucky says, pointing to the book.

“I know. Steve said there can’t be a book that you’ve read and he hasn’t, that the thought made him uncomfortable.”

“That little… punk,” Bucky says, censoring himself. “What are you makin’?” he asks Sarah, gesturing to the knitting.

“Socks.” She huffs a small laugh. “I’m always making socks.”

“They look like a good pair.”

“Would you like some? I make them very fast, it’s no trouble. What’s your favourite colour?”

“Uh.” He doesn’t really have one, so he names the first colour that comes into his head. “Blue. Thank you, ma’am, that would be swell.”

“No thank you necessary. And you have to stop calling me ma’am. Son.”

Bucky grins. “Sorry, mom.”

“That’s alright. He has a will, you know.”

Bucky’s head snaps up. “I’m sorry?”

Sarah meets his eyes, unwavering. Bucky is reminded that she sees everything, knows everything. “He has a will. You’re in it.”

Why would she tell him this? His eyes go to Steve. He looks the same. Nothing to prompt a morbid discussion like this. “Since when?”

“Since we made it a few weeks ago. After he got out of hospital last time.”

Bucky, slightly in shock, jokes, “What am I getting? Anything good?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“No, god, no,” Bucky shakes his head. “Of course not.” He realises this is the first time he and Sarah have been able to talk privately in a while, that she’s simply trying to fit everything in before Steve wakes. So he does the same.

“I’m not going to England,” he tells her. “Steve probably told you I got accepted to Cambridge. But I’m not going. I’m not sure _what_ I’m doing – I might go to Columbia, that’s quite close. Or NYU, that’s even closer. But there’s no way I’m going to a different continent while…” He just shakes his head again.

“Why haven’t you told him?” Sarah asks, tearing her eyes away from Steve to watch Bucky, the soft motherly concern barely diluted.

“He wouldn’t like it. He wants me to go. Wait, that’s not true, I know he doesn’t want me to go. It’s… he wants me to be happy. So in a way, he does want me to go. And I don’t wanna disappoint him.” He fumbles through the words. None of it makes sense.

This doesn’t escape Sarah. “That’s not why,” she says, and waits patiently for his next attempt at an answer.

“Whatever.” Bucky shifts in his seat, turns towards the bed so he’s not facing Sarah straight on, so he can avoid her eye sometimes. “It doesn’t matter. It’s my decision, anyway, not his. I can just go next year.”

“Nothing will be different in a year. A year is not as long as you think it is.” Her words are quieter, harsher, less concern for Bucky and more concern for Steve.

“What are you saying?”

“I don’t think you’ll ever go,” she tells him. “As long as Steve is here, I think you’ll be here. And he’s going to be here a while, and I don’t think you realise that. In a few years you’re going to resent him for keeping you from going. I don’t want you putting that on him.”

“Are you sure that’s why you want me to go?” Bucky shoots back, and Sarah recoils, leans away from him, manages not to look hurt.

“I want my son to be happy,” she says, fiddling with the blankets under Steve’s arms, straightening out the wrinkles. “And I want you to be happy, too, James.”

“My happiness is none of your business.” Instinct kicks in; he feels like he’s in an argument he needs to win.

Sarah just laughs and says, “Like hell it isn’t. I’m your mother, remember?”

“Stop saying that. It’s creepy,” Steve groans as he sits up. Immediately Sarah’s hands fluster over him, propping him up with pillows and pulling up blankets and handing him things, water and bread and pudding cups, to the point where Steve puts up his hands and says, “Mom, you gotta stop.”

“Sorry.” Sarah puts down the vanilla pudding she’s holding, the lid pulled half off in her attempt to get it to him. “It’s just not often I get to take care of _you_.”

“I’m gonna be here for three more months, mom, you can spread it out a little.” Steve spots Bucky and grins. “Hey, pal.”

“Heya, Stevie. Lovin’ the book choice.”

“Thought I’d give my mind a break, read something a bit easier,” he teases.

Bucky shoves Steve’s mound of pillows, moves his chair back over to the other side of the bed. “Shut your mouth. I never knew you hadn’t read those books. I swear you told me you read _The Hobbit._ ”

“Yeah, but I just read that one. Little guy off on adventures? I had to.”

“That’s kinda what the whole of _Lord of the Rings_ is about too.”

“Spoilers! God, we’re on chapter four!”

Bucky apologises profusely and Sarah continues to read. Steve closes his eyes and almost falls asleep again so asks Bucky to read instead, says his mom’s voice is too soft. Bucky reads aloud and Steve stares at him the whole time, for hours, and at the end of it, when Bucky mentions something that happened in the story, Steve has no idea what he’s talking about.

* * *

A few weeks later, as April turns to May, Bucky takes his exams.

They’re all spread out over one week, which is convenient, but also means that he has absolutely no free time at all. His days and nights are spent with his nose in that fat notebook filled with his chicken scratch handwriting and too many notes to himself ( _Important!!!; Go over this bit again dumbass; You’re 18. You need to know your goddamn times tables.)_

He holes up at the desk in his room, just him and his lamp and fifteen empty mugs. Twice a night his mom will bring him a hot drink, coffee at four and tea at eight, and she keeps asking to take the mugs down to clean them, but he always tells her that he’ll do it. Eventually they run out of mugs in the kitchen so she sneaks in and takes them when he’s asleep, his guilty conscience be damned.

It’s difficult, and he’s got a shit memory, but hell if he doesn’t try. It’s all about long-term memory, he tells himself. He’s just gotta keep grinding and grinding until it’s so far down in his brain that he can reach and grab the information whenever he needs to. In order to do this, he needs to fully concentrate, put everything else out of his mind, just for a week.

Easier said than done. Natasha calls twice. Scott calls once. Steve calls three times. More than anything he wants to answer. He knows that Natasha would just ask if she can visit Steve yet, and invite him round to drink whiskey and listen to Harry James. He knows that Scott just wants to chat, ask about his life and then make fun of it. Steve would probably just cheer him on, tell him he’s the smartest guy he knows and he can kick Ancient Greece in its ancient Greek ass. He spends too much time imagining these conversations. It’d probably be easier to just pick up the phone.

When he walks into his first exam on the Monday, he can’t help but see the empty desk down the end of the hall, after Richards and before Sampson. Why would they even set a place for him? Do they not know he’s never coming back? It hits Bucky for a second that their friendship isn’t a high school one anymore. They’re never going to hang out under that big tree on the baseball field ever again; by the time Steve gets out of hospital, it would be trespassing, because they won’t be high school students anymore. Steve is just a person living in the world now, nobody’s student.

It makes him sad. Everything has changed and it won’t change back.

Is this what being an adult is like? Not that he would consider himself an adult. Just because he can buy alcohol and vote doesn’t mean he knows anything more than he did before.

He takes another exam that day, and two on Tuesday, one on Wednesday, three on Thursday and two on Friday. After the final one, he heads straight home, falls asleep at four p.m., and doesn’t wake til noon the next day.

Bedheaded and groggy, he almost slips heading down the stairs. It’s been so long since he had a good night’s sleep that his head is spinning. At the kitchen table, Rebecca makes fun of his hair and his mom makes him two sandwiches and tells him she’s proud of him. She also asks him to please stick around for at least half an hour before he goes to see Steve. Bucky agrees.

He excuses himself to call Steve. She didn’t say anything about the phone.

When he finally gets through, past three different receptionists and an administrator, Steve is singing the graduation march, very out of tune. “How did it go?” he cries at the end of it, and Bucky can practically hear him beam.

“They went pretty well. No glaring mistakes, which is a good sign.”

“I bet you killed it! Man, you’re so smart.”

“Thanks, bud. It’s good to hear your voice. I should be over in about forty-five minutes.”

“Awesome! I’ve been missin’ you, lemme tell ya. Just me and my mom here for a week? We’re drivin’ each other crazy.”

Bucky hears a distant, _“If I knew you were going to be this ungrateful I never would have given birth to you.”_

“It’s your own fault! You raised me!” Steve says back, laughing. “Sorry, Buck, she’s givin’ me a hard time. You gotta come help me defend myself.”

“I’ll be there soon, try and hold her off until I get there.”

“Will do.”

“See ya, Stevie.”

“Would you _stop_ -”

Bucky hangs up, grinning.

* * *

When he walks into the ward, Steve’s staring at the door. Their eyes meet and Steve beams at him, a spot of sunshine, burning so bright Bucky can feel the warmth melting down his muscles, sliding his face into the easy smile he’s never had to practise in the mirror.

“Bucky Barnes, GED, everybody,” Steve cheers, clapping his hands as Bucky approaches, but his speech cuts off as Bucky shoves his huge notebook in Steve’s face. “Don’t tell me you want me to quiz you,” Steve asks, looking from the book to Bucky dryly. “Just for fun?”

“This is yours now.” Bucky sits down and leaves the book in Steve’s lap. “One day you’re gonna graduate. Maybe not for another five years, but some day. And those are the best notes in the world. Except for the handwriting.”

“I can’t tell if you’re jokin’ or not.”

“I’m not.”

“I ain’t smart enough for this shit.”

“You can recite ancient poetry from memory, man, I don’t think your intelligence is the problem.”

“Bucky.” Steve doesn’t even look mad, just amused, still shining just from their being together again. “Why is this so important to you?”

“You just have to graduate high school. You have to!” He sighs with frustration when Steve laughs at him. “I’m bein’ serious. If you want a job in this economy, you gotta have a diploma.”

“It’s not your job to look out for me. It’s my mom’s, and she’s in the bathroom. Besides.” He shrugs, the corners of his mouth dragging up as he squints his eyes in that playful way he has that lets Bucky know he’s about to be real funny. “Not like I need to plan that far in the future anyway.”

The blood drains from Bucky’s entire body, heads down to his feet and cements them to the floor so he couldn’t move even if he wanted to. “Shut up.”

“Buck-” Steve starts, backtracking, his hands twitching in panic.

“Don’t say that shit. Don’t ever say that shit, you understand me?” Angry. He’s angry. This isn’t the reaction he expected from himself. He expected more sadness, the never ending tidal wave that’s always headed towards him to seep over onto his face, but he’s just so angry. “That’s not somethin’ you joke about. That’s not funny at all.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

“Not at all.”

“Alright! I won’t joke about it again. God, you ever think you might be a little controlling?” Steve snaps back.

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“You’re trynna get me to do shit I don’t wanna do,” he says, gesturing to the notebook, “you’re tellin’ me what to say. Just cos I’m sick don’t mean I’m dumb, don’t mean I’m helpless.”

“Just.” Bucky shakes his head so fast that he sees green. “Forget it. You wanna joke about that shit, act like it ain’t botherin’ you, like it ain’t real, you go ahead. Just don’t do it when I’m here. Or do! Wouldn’t want you to think I was tellin’ ya what to do, would we?”

There’s no energy in the argument. It’s just pathetic.

Steve doesn’t say anything for a good while. Bucky is about to get up and leave when Steve says, “Your friends can come visit me now.”

“They’re your friends.”

“My friends can come visit me now.”

“Good. Natasha won’t stop buggin’ me.”

“They’ll have to wait a whole week, though. Visitation ain’t til Friday. And it’s Saturday. It is Saturday, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Guess that gives me time to mentally prepare.”

“Thanks, pal.”

“Well, you wore me down.”

* * *

On Monday, Bucky goes to work. He wakes up at half six, bathes, and sets off to the dock at around seven thirty with empty pockets and a whole day of manual labour in front of him.

It’s not too hard, just simple stuff, loading and unloading the crates, making the fishing hooks with what his boss calls his “delicate lady fingers”, sometimes doing odd jobs like fixing a leak, usually with some tape and a plastic bag. The spring sun beats down on him and by noon he can smell himself, covered in sweat and somehow dirty.

The work is utilitarian and repetitive and he likes it because it reminds him of the person that he was last summer, has been for the past few summers. Bucky can take exams and party and play baseball and do all the things that kids do, but he can also load fifty pounds of fish and show up on time. It reminds him that he’ll be okay, that if nothing else works out he’s got a job here, that he can be an adult and make some money and if his dreams don’t work out then hey, that’s not the end of the world. He’s someone else, unknown and surrounded by thirty year olds, and it’s liberating.

His thoughts start to wander as he’s sitting by the river and threading fishing wire. It’s mindless work and he’s got a mind. He considers his friendship with Steve, it’s difference. It had always been stimulating; Steve was more intelligent than him in so many ways, he’s always believed this, it’s part of the reason he’s so keen for him to get his GED so people can’t get off calling him dumb. But recently they’ve just been arguing and getting on each other’s nerves. They can’t talk like they used to. Partly because everything is serious, partly because Sarah is always there, partly because now there’s something they can’t talk about and it’s eating both of them up from the inside. Or, Bucky at least.

When he gets off work, Natasha is waiting for him, her hands full with a bottle of wine and a bottle of aspirin.

“Let me guess,” Bucky says as he walks up to where she leans against his car, wearing too much leather to go unnoticed. He eyes the two objects she hands him. “You want to drink so much that we get incredible headaches tomorrow?”

“You read my mind.”

They drive out to the ocean and park on the sand in a spot Natasha knows where no one can see you, under the pier and in the shadows with a great view of the sea. They drink from the bottle and Bucky thinks of Steve, always acting like Bucky was everything a young person should be, and agrees with him as he gets drunk at seven thirty p.m. with a beautiful girl.

“Okay, let’s talk now,” Natasha says when the bottle is gone. “You’re drunk.”

“ _You’re_ drunk.”

“No, I’m not.” Natasha tucks her legs under her, something that would be impossible for a person of average height in the tiny space of the shotgun seat, but Natasha seems to fit anywhere she likes. “I want to talk to someone and you’re the one to do that to.”

“I’m touched.”

“He is going to France. You are going to England. Everyone is leaving.”

“Scott’s not leaving.”

Natasha groans and covers her eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

“He can be serious sometimes. What about Hope?”

“The girl he watches from across the cafeteria every day that he’s never spoken to? Yeah. So mature.”

“What’s so serious about _me_?”

Natasha shrugs. “You just know.”

He’s interested, can’t help wanting to know what she thinks about him, wants to know what she likes about him so he can keep doing it. “What?”

“You know when to be serious and quiet and to shut up sometimes. You know when there’s something I am leaving out.”

Bucky hadn’t noticed this about himself at all. “I do?”

“You do.” She fixes him with the dark-eyed intensity that has felled many a good man in its time. “It’s funny. You are very perceptive.”

“Well, gee, you’re makin’ me blush.”

Natasha smirks. “I tend to have that effect on men.”

“Stop flirting with me.”

“No.”

“You’re takin’ advantage of me.” His words are slurred a little.

“Impossible, surely? What is there to take advantage of?”

Bucky shrugs.

“Are you sure that you don’t go for women?” she asks in the amused whisper he’s heard her use in bars all over the city.

“Pretty sure. But how sure can you be? Are _you_ sure that you don’t go for women?”

“It’s possible. Virginia Woolf goes for both, if the rumours are true, and I am a big fan of hers.”

Natasha gets out of the car and sits on the hood. Bucky stumbles out after her, meaning to tell her to get the fuck off his car, but ends up sitting next to her, thinking about Steve, thinking about how he’d romanticise this moment if he were here.

“What are you thinking about?” Bucky asks Natasha.

“Paris,” she replies, the city sounding strange in her accent. “London.”

“Not London. Cambridge.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not going.”

“What?” She slips off the car and stands in front of him, takes one of his legs in each hand to keep him from running away. “You’re not?”

“I will next year. I just can’t right now.”

“He’s sick.”

Bucky nods. He has to look away from her, casts his eyes downwards in shame and sadness. “I keep thinkin’ about gettin’ a letter that just says, _Steve can’t write right now, he’s too sick,_ and then a few weeks later, _I’ve got some terrible news._ And I can’t do shit about it, and then that part of my life is over forever. And what did I get instead? Tea with the queen?”

“But, if you don’t go now, you might never go.”

“You sound like his mom. Why are you complainin’, anyway? You just said you don’t wanna be on your own.”

“Does he know?”

“No.”

“You should tell him.”

“I know.”

She sits back down next to him and leans on his shoulder, rests her head under his chin. He takes her hand. It’s always been the four of them, Bucky, Scott, Sam, Natasha, the misfits that aren’t misfits, hanging out without the need for anyone else. No best friends, no alliances. Bucky had taken a guess that Nat had fallen for Sam. Maybe after all this time, Nat and Bucky were the closest out of all of them, a bond emerging from the boozy cloud of chaos that is group friendship.

Bucky burps and Natasha waves her hand in front of her face. “Disgusting.”

“Sorry. Can’t handle my wine like you Russians.”

“In Russia we drink vodka. Come with me one day, when I return. Get you drinking like a pro.”

Bucky’s laugh is too loud. “Nat, come on. There’s no way I’d ever survive in Russia.”

* * *

The letter comes in the post the next day. 

_Dear Mr Barnes_  
_We would like to formally invite you to the class of 1937 graduation ceremony, taking place on Friday the 10 th of June at 3p.m. Refreshments will be provided, please arrive at least fifteen minutes before the ceremony begins to find your seat, which will be in alphabetical order by surname. If you cannot attend you must pick up your diploma from the school office before the 1st of August or it will be sent to the address that we have on file.  
_ _Principal Coulson_

Underneath the letter is the piece of paper telling him his grades for the year. His stomach churns as he scans the page for…

His GPA. He’s in. He did it. He’s the first person in his family to go to college.

Or, he will be. Soon. Bucky still hasn’t told his mom he’s deferring a year. If Steve’s mom doesn’t like it, how would his own react?

He decides to tell Rebecca first. She’s like a smaller, meaner, more understanding version of their mother, with better hair and worse manners.

She’s sitting on her bed, her head hanging upside down off the foot, phone pressed to her ear. “No, I’m tellin’ ya. If he said he wants to get a milkshake, that’s a good sign… no, if you’re lactose intolerant, you can’t have one… I dunno what to tell ya, Janine, either order a soda or prepare for a very strange evenin’! Hang on.” She presses the phone to her shoulder and looks at Bucky, standing in her doorway. “What?”

“I gotta talk to you.”

“I’m busy.”

“Tell Janine to drink ten milkshakes and stay in the bathroom all night. Trust me, guys love that. Makes ‘em seem mysterious.”

“I gotta call ya back,” Rebecca says into the phone. “My brother’s here talkin’ about vomit… he’s wearin’ slacks and a sweater, why? … Oh, _gross,_ Janine!” Rebecca slams the phone down and makes a face. “God, why do all my friends think you’re so hot?”

“Cos I _am_ hot.”

“Are not. Your nose is too small.”

“We have the same nose.”

“Yeah, so that means you’ve got a woman’s nose.”

“Nothin’ wrong with that. Women didn’t go through suffrage just so we could shit on their noses.”

“What do you want?”

He sits on her legs and she punches him until he moves. “I got somethin’ to tell mom and I don’t know how.”

“Are you a communist?”

“Well, no.”

“Then you’re good.”

He picks up her magazine and flips through it. “What’s this? You’re puttin’ gravy on your legs instead of pantyhose?”

“Gimme that.” Rebecca snatches it back. “Just somethin’ people did in Britain when they did rationing. Hey, you can let me know if it’s actually true. Watch out for the women’s legs in the rain, see if they start meltin’ off.”

“That’s the thing… I’m deferring a year.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I’m not goin’ to college ‘til next year.”

Rebecca groans. “It’s cos I want the room, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“It is!”

“It’s really not.”

“Mom’s gonna be mad. She’s gonna say you’re never gonna go, and the Barnes family will be without a college graduate ‘til, like, the year two-thousand.”

“I know. Could you tell her for me?”

“Ha.”

“What if I just hide under your bed for a year? Pretend I went?”

“I don’t want you under the bed if I get a boyfriend.”

“Oh, gross.” He covers his ears. “Gross.”

“What? I’m almost fourteen. All my friends are gettin’ boys to go with.”

“If all your friends jumped off a cliff, number one, I’d be very happy, and number two, would you go too?”

“Sure. They’d break my fall. You’re just trynna change the subject. Forgetting that _you_ came to talk to _me_ and interrupted my very important conversation.”

He tries to ruffle her hair but she sees it coming and kicks him away. Sometimes it freaks him out that she’s taller and older and thinks about boys. He remembers when she was born, when he’d hidden her under a pile of clothes cos she was eating all the grapes.

“I’m not that concerned.”

“Are you insane?”

“I just wanted to come and talk to ya. I missed you, kid.” He darts forwards and manages to get her hair in his hand, mussing it up as much as he can before she slaps his hand away and kicks him off the bed.

“Get _out_. I hope ma murders you.”

* * *

When he gets to the hospital later that day, Steve isn’t there. His bed is empty. The white covers are pushed back and there are some personal items on the little table on the right, but no people. 

It’s the first time this has happened. Every time he’s arrived so far, Steve has been there, staring at the door, sitting up and reading, or sleeping, or talking to his mom, or just getting back from one of his walks around the ward. The walks, yeah. He’s probably just on one of those. Bucky shouldn’t worry. Why is he worried? There are a million places that Steve could be right now. He could be in the goddamned bathroom. What could have happened? Wouldn’t the bed be made if something had happened? If it were empty, vacant, spare, then the covers would have been changed and hospital cornered.

In his hand Bucky holds the letter from the school, folded up so it’s not visible outside his fist. 10th of June, that’s in a couple weeks. Steve could be better in a couple weeks. They could let him out for the day. That’s what his mom had said, urging Bucky to take the letter with him to show Steve. She thinks that it’ll make Bucky wanna go to college faster, standing up on the stage getting his diploma. She doesn’t consider the possibility that Steve is the reason he wants to stay.

He brought the letter with him but he doesn’t think he’ll bother Steve with it. There’s a chance he could go, but most likely he can’t, and it’ll just make him feel shitty, remind him that he’s missing out on stuff being in hospital, that he can’t just leave if he wants to.

He sits next to the bed and waits for Steve to come back, pulls out _A Study in Scarlet_ and reads because of how long Steve is taking. He’s only halfway through the book and it’s been months, which is embarrassing. He takes it everywhere with him and tries to read it when he can but he can never get through more than a couple pages at a time. It’s too dense. There are too many things to keep track of. Why do all the authors think you have room in your mind to remember something that was foreshadowed way back on page four? Don’t they know you have other stuff to worry about?

“I know, I know,” Bucky opens his mouth to say as a figure approaches the bed. “I’m slow as hell. But I’m tryin’.” He remoulds the sentence in his head as he sees that the figure is standing, too tall to be Steve and not skinny enough to be his mother, moulds it into something more respectful because it’s probably the lady doctor coming to tell him where Steve is. But when he looks up, it’s a stranger.

“Hello,” Bucky says.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Steve’s brother.”

“Who the hell is Steve?” The man says as he gets into Steve’s bed.

Bucky feels his eyes go wide as he looks up and around, frantically. His eyes land on a nurse behind the desk and he rips out of his chair. “Where’s Steve?”

“You mean Mr Rogers? He’s been transferred.”

Transferred. That’s not so bad. Transferred isn’t dead. Unless he’s been transferred to heaven. “Where?”

The nurse looks in a big book. It takes her too long to find the name. Shouldn’t they have a better system or something? For circumstances like this? “Third floor. Critical unit.”

“Why?”

“I don’t have those details right–”

Bucky doesn’t stay to listen to her excuses. He pushes off the desk and runs over to the staircase, sprinting up them with that word in his mind: critical. What does that mean? Critical is not terminal. It’s not intensive care. It’s not surgery. What does critical mean? Why don’t they teach that in schools? Why, for all the studying he did, does he not know anything important?

“James,” a voice says, and he whirls and skids to a stop. Dr Carter.

“What’s goin’ on?” Bucky finds that he’s out of breath. “They said… he’s gone, he’s been moved?”

Dr Carter nods. “It seems Steve has contracted pneumonia.”

“I’ve heard of that. What is that?”

“It’s a condition of the lungs. It’s very common in patients with pre-existing asthma, it tends to occur in weakened immune systems.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’s resting now. He can’t have any visitors so you can join his mother in the waiting room.” She points down the hall.

“Is he okay though?”

“I don’t know how to answer that.”

Bucky has to remind himself not to yell. “Is it treatable?”

“Yes. But there’s no cure as of yet.” 

“Why can’t he have any visitors?”

“I’m afraid he’s contagious.”

Bucky leans against the wall, stares down at the muddy white floor. Everything has changed with no warning. How can that happen? It wasn’t even built up. It hasn’t come at the best time, or the worst time. It’s just slap bang in the middle of everything.

Dr. Carter hovers next to him, clearly unsure whether to say anything else or to leave him be, so he just says, “Thank you,” and she nods and walks away. He slides down the wall to sit on the floor and looks off down the corridor at all the people here. So many old people, so many people from the war, so many people too young and too inexperienced to have to go through something like this.

What has Steve done with his life? What has Bucky done? Between them they’ve got a GED and a joke book. Steve takes care of his mom and Bucky takes care of himself. No one will remember either of them.

He realises he’s been sitting on the floor for ten minutes. He realises this is the kind of situation where sitting on the floor for ten minutes is not the thing to do. He has to be an adult and be mature and that means not looking as though he’s as upset as he is.

So he gets up and goes to the waiting room and sits down beside Sarah, who also looks as though she’s not as upset as she is.

“He’s my only family,” Sarah says, so quietly it’s like she breathes it out of her.

“Shut up, mom,” Bucky says, and reaches over to hold her hand.

* * *

Living in a hospital bed is not what Steve thought he would be doing the month before his eighteenth birthday, but that’s where he is. Run out of books to read, exhausted all conversation with his mother and Bucky, tired of walking around the same corridors to stretch his legs but not being allowed to stray too far from the ward, just in case.

It’s true that once he’s eighteen, he can sign himself out and leave, no longer a minor. It can’t come soon enough. How soon is his birthday? What’s the date today? End of May? Wait. Is he asleep? Is he sleeping? Is this a dream?

He opens his eyes and the clock beside him tells him the date is the 28th of May. Okay, so just one more month until he can – oh. What’s that? Why does his chest hurt so much? Oh no. What now.

The room is small and different and empty. Completely empty. There’s a tube in his arm; the bag it’s connected to says ‘sulfapyridine’. God, he has no idea what that is, but it’s in his body right now.

He presses the call button and the door opens. Dr Carter walks in wearing a mask and protective gear.

“I’m afraid you have pneumonia, Mr Rogers,” she says, voice muffled but body language apologetic. “It’s contagious, so you won’t be able to see your family for a couple of days until it becomes less aggressive.”

“I don’t remember having pneumonia.”

“You started crashing in your sleep. Probably for the best – it must have been incredibly painful. Definitely the kind of thing you want to be unconscious for, you should count yourself lucky.”

“Yeah, I’m practically Irish.”

“Your mother and brother are in the waiting room. Is there anything you’d like me to say to them?”

Steve looks to his bedside table, his personal affects stacked up there. Dr. Carter must have brought them for him. He spots _The_ _Lord of the Rings,_ the poetry book, the joke book, the Virginia Woolf novel his mother had brought for him that he’d refused. But she knew he’d have to read it eventually, that he’d get bored enough.

“I have to stay here, don’t I? I can’t leave when I turn eighteen?”

“The treatment for pneumonia is incredibly time-consuming. The treatment has lowered the mortality rates for the disease to less than seven percent, however if you left the hospital, it would kill you.”

“Can you tell my family… can you just look at my mom really sarcastically and say, _Don’t say I told you so._ ”

“That would be inappropriate.”

“Okay. Just tell them I miss them.”

“Will do. Is there anything else you’d like?”

“Nah. Thanks. Why are you doin’ this?” Steve asks as Dr Carter turns to leave. “Aren’t you at risk, bein’ in here?”

“I didn’t go to medical school to wait outside the room, Mr Rogers,” she says, and he can tell she’s smiling even though he can’t see it.

When she’s gone, and he’s alone, he picks up the Virginia Woolf novel, _The Waves._ He reads and reads all day to pass the time and maybe he judged too early. Maybe it was just the stagnation of _Mrs Dalloway,_ the fact that it reads like a very longwinded short story, that put him off. This one is much better.

 _“How much better,”_ he reads, _“is silence; the coffee cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here for ever with bare things, this coffee cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself.”_

But Steve would have to disagree. Cut off from everyone he loves, there’s nothing he wouldn’t give to not be alone.

* * *

When Bucky graduates, it’s a Friday, a hot afternoon in June. His mom is there, and his sister, and Natasha, and Sam and Scott too. His friends are pissed off that Steve went and got pneumonia only days before they were meant to visit him. Bucky admits that he’s pissed off about Steve’s disease too.

He is valedictorian. He was surprised at this news. His mom cried, but his mom cries at everything.

When it’s time to make a speech, he pushes down the butterflies by plastering on his favourite smile and squaring his shoulders. He reminds himself that he is tall and attractive and that everyone wants to hear what he has to say.

The speech in his hands is the fourth draft. The first one was described by Steve as a “heartfelt pile of crap”. The second draft, the one that Steve had written, was a thousand times better than anything Bucky could have come up with. Bucky’s draft had been like bullet points of everything he wanted to say. Steve wrote them up into actual sentences, the sentences Bucky had wanted to say all along. It had been perfect, and then he’d redrafted, and it had been more perfect, and then he’d redrafted again, and it had been right. And Steve says he’s not a writer.

“Classmates,” Bucky says into the microphone. “Parents. Faculty members. It’s an honour to stand here today as your valedictorian. My time at high school has been filled with great times, great friendships. It wasn’t always easy – I think you’ll all remember the home baseball game when the ball happened to smack me in the face in front of two hundred people–” a smatter of laughs from the crowd, “but we won the game. Everything considered, that’s what people are going to remember. That’s what got us the trophy that sits in the case in the hallway. That’s what’s gonna survive the test of time. Years from now, who’s going to remember that you had to stay up until two a.m. doing your homework? Who’s going to remember that you didn’t get the date you wanted for homecoming? Who’s going to remember any of this, or anyone? All we’ll remember is a four-year blur of red, white, and blue, and the people who made it out with us. All we’ll remember is that we won the game.”

He thanks the crowd as they applaud, and walks back to his seat, trying not to look like he knows everyone’s eyes are still on him.

“That was beautiful,” Clint says from next to him, actual tears in his eyes. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“We can still be friends.”

“I’m goin’ to college in Pennsylvania. That’s all the way across the country.”

“Clint, Pennsylvania is like three hours away.”

“Well, fuck. I told everyone I was never gonna see them again. Wait, does this mean I won’t get to try surfing?”

They start calling out names and soon get to Barnes, James Buchanan. He climbs the steps and stands on the wooden stage on the grass on the baseball field and shakes Coulson’s hand. For a moment he stops and looks at the tree where Steve had cried over him. When he’d had to stand there and be the other one, the one that doesn’t mention it when the other gets too close, even though that always used to be Steve’s job. He looks out into the crowd of people and almost assumes he’ll see a blonde head with a huge smile sitting next to his sister. But next to Rebecca, there is Natasha.

“Congratulations, Mr. Barnes.”

“Thank you, sir.”

As he leaves the stage, blonde hair catches the sunlight on the edge of the horizon. Steve must have made her come. As soon as he looks at her, she turns around to leave.

They go out to dinner, Bucky, his family and his friends. They drink wine and eat pizza and Scott starts crying at how much he’s going to miss everyone, and Bucky reminds him that he’s staying put for a year, and Bucky’s mom starts rattling off all the statistics about how a gap year is often good for your education that she’d looked up to appease herself after he’d told her the news. Sam is quiet except for whatever he keeps talking to Rebecca about – from the way he’s pointing with his hands, Bucky would guess he’s educating her on the basics of ballet. Rebecca is probably feigning interest; no way she’d have the concentration for something so disciplined. But she makes Sam laugh, which is something you don’t see every day.

Natasha is on Bucky’s left and it’s strange. When she tells a story she holds onto his upper arm and strokes it like they’re a couple. Keeps trying to touch him like that. One time she tries to wipe food off his face and he had to excuse himself to go to the bathroom.

She follows him and stands without shame in the men’s toilet. “I apologise. I’m desperate.”

Bucky smiles sadly, knowing that it’s mere weeks until Sam leaves for Paris. “It’s okay. Just don’t want my mom gettin’ all excited about grandchildren.”

“I’ll stop. He hasn’t looked over once.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could help.”

“Just keep being my friend. Truly, you are helping.” She hugs him, spreads her fingers on his back and presses her face into his shoulder. It’s incredibly comforting and something he finds he’s been needing for a while. He holds her for too long, and when someone comes into the men’s room, he mumbles an embarrassed apology and leaves the two alone.

After dinner, Bucky drives to the hospital, puts on his cap and gown again in the parking lot and enters the ward to the sound of Steve singing the graduation theme. Again.

“Stevie, you need some new material.”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Steve asks from his bed, in the middle of the private room, no longer as contagious but no longer completely safe, either. Bucky hadn’t even read the waiver the doctor had handed to him when he’d said, enough is enough, he wants to see his friend. He’d signed it without question.

There’s no colour in Steve’s cheeks but at least he’s smiling and trying to sit up today. Maybe it’s because he’s been surrounded by people their age who are at their most vibrant, celebrating and laughing and cheering and feeling proud of themselves, but it makes Bucky extra sad today that Steve is like this, hasn’t always been like this.

“Nothin’. Look at this.” He can’t help but smile with pride as he hands the diploma to Steve, making sure to speak quietly so as not to disturb Sarah who sleeps in the armchair across the room.

Steve unrolls the paper and beams. “James Buchanan Barnes. God, you sound so fancy. James Buchanan Barnes, GED.”

“Steve Rogers, NERD.”

“Grant. That’s my middle name.”

“Hey, I didn’t know that.”

“Now ya do.”

Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, almost slipping off the sheer material of his gown. “The speech went down great.”

“Did anyone tell you you’re the voice of our generation?”

“Yeah, plenty of people.”

“See, I knew I was the voice of our generation. Maybe it’s cos I’m so filled with youthful energy.”

“I wish you’da been there, Stevie.”

“You’ve called me that twice in a minute.”

“I’m feelin’ sentimental.”

“Gross.”

“My high school career is over! I gotta get a _job_.”

“You have a job. And you’re goin’ to college.”

“Oh yeah.” Whoops. Steve still doesn’t know. He’d forgotten about that. Or maybe he’d assumed Sarah would tell Steve.

“I wish I’d been there too. You know I do.”

“I know.”

In the private room, Steve can pat Bucky’s hand for a second too long. His hands are always so cold, have always been, but Bucky doesn’t mind. He always runs too hot anyway.

“Your mom was there.”

“She was?”

Steve’s surprise is in itself surprising. “Yeah. I assumed you made her go.”

“No. She told me she was runnin’ errands.”

“She’s pretty autonomous these days.”

“Look at you with that big word.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I’ve been readin’ the book you got me, haven’t I?”

“You have?” Steve grins.

“I’ve been readin’ it right in front of you. You can’t act all bashful and surprised when I’ve been readin’ it in this room.”

“Alright, alright. Yeah, my mom’s been gettin’ around. She loves that wheelchair. The doctor said she can keep it.”

“No way!”

“It’s technically not up to code. Somethin’ about wheel diameter. Works fine for us, though.”

“That’s swell.”

“Yeah.”

Steve hands Bucky his diploma back and smiles up at him. “I know what I want you to get me for my birthday.”

“Why do you get to choose?”

“You got to choose yours.”

“Only cos you asked me what I wanted.”

“Did you have somethin’ in mind for me already?”

“Yeah. But go on, lemme hear what you want.”

“A record.”

Bucky can’t help but scoff, gives Steve a judgmental look. “A record? That’s your big idea?”

“ _Your_ big idea was a _book_.” Steve folds his arms across his chest and looks at Bucky with that perfect blend between amused and serious, playful and genuine, that he’s so good at.

“Alright, fine. I’ll give you a music education, is that what ya want?”

Steve shrugs. “Ain’t gotta be an education. Just miss music, is all. So what are ya gonna get me?”

“I ain’t tellin’ you!” Bucky cries, waggling his finger, scolding. “You gotta wait!”

“I want it nooooooow,” Steve moans, pouting, and Bucky laughs because it looks so much like his sister. “Are you gonna give it to me on my birthday?”

“Duh. What kinda question is that?”

“Well.” Steve squirms, his expression loses that playful edge, and Bucky’s smile drops in anticipation. “You’re not here a whole lot recently. You’ve been workin’ a lot, Buck.” Bucky suspects the addition of the nickname is an attempt to keep everything light.

“I didn’t know if you noticed that.” Bucky’s been working six days a week. Three of those days, Natasha’s there when he comes out of work, with a bottle of something and a lot on her mind. She’s probably his second best friend now, he thinks, and then feels guilty for so many reasons at once.

“I’m just sayin’. You could give it to me _now,_ just in case you gotta work late that night.” Steve’s smiling again and working his way around the issue, drawing a circle around it that Bucky can either go along with or jump inside with Steve.

He goes along. “That’d spoil the surprise.” Bucky figures he can make up for his absences later. He’s barely coping as it is. The balance he has between going to work, visiting Steve, drinking with Natasha, spending time with his family and being alone is a fragile ecosystem that he can’t try and change. What if only two nights getting blackout isn’t enough? What if visiting Steve more would piss off Sarah? No, he’s got a good thing going. It doesn’t feel good, but it’s everything, so it works, and that’s good, right?

It’s so confusing, he wants to lay down and fall asleep. After all, it’s possible. Him and Steve in a hospital bed? Nothing new at all.

What’s the date? June tenth? A month until Steve’s birthday. Two months until he was supposed to leave for England. He should probably get around to telling them he’s not going, so someone else can take the spot. Shame to think there’s someone out there right now settling for their second choice when Bucky just has to send a letter to get them in. He’s just too damn busy, though. When he’s not busy, he’s having time to think, and that’s as busy as any other part of his day.

How he’s gonna find the time to plan what he’s got in mind for Steve’s birthday, he has no idea. Maybe he’ll remember to think about it at work. He always plans to think about things at work, but he ends up wondering what kind of drink Natasha will bring him that day, or whether she’ll come at all.

* * *

She brings rum on Wednesday.

Bucky’s house is small and always inhabited, and his mom isn’t one of those ‘cool’ moms that allows drinking as long as it’s in the house. The day he’d turned eighteen, she’d sat him down at the kitchen table and given him the talk about how he shouldn’t be pressured into anything, he should stop drinking when he feels it affect him, he should always drink lots of water and eat before he starts. He’d nodded along like he hadn’t been throwing up outside Scott’s house since he was fourteen.

Natasha’s house is a mystery. Bucky knows where it is, he’s dropped her off and picked her up hundreds of times, but he’s never been inside. One time an old man leaned out the front door and yelled something in Russian, but that’s the closest Bucky’s ever gotten to meeting her family. When Nat had got into the car, he’d asked about the man, and she’d replied, “He just asked if I have the sandwiches he made me. I left them behind, they’re always terrible. Let’s go.”

So, when it’s just the two of them, not in Scott’s decked out basement or Sam’s always-empty house, they have Bucky’s car and that’s about it.

He sleeps in the backseat, refuses to drive under the influence of alcohol no matter how many times Nat insists he’ll be fine. She says her father used to down a whole bottle of vodka and drive forty miles home in the snow. Bucky reminds her that he’s really more of a wine guy.

Sometimes, like tonight, it’s about her. Sometimes it’s silent. Sometimes she tries to get him to talk, but he just shakes his head, tells her he’s too tired, and then it’s a silent night also.

The things he never knew and now knows are as follows: when they were fifteen, Sam and Natasha were drinking outside Scott’s house, Bucky and Scott passed out upstairs, Sam sober and Natasha handling everything too well. They sat on the windowsill and Sam, naïve, thought that Natasha was drunk and wouldn’t remember anything. He told her he wanted to be a dancer but he knew that it would make everything hard. He told her he had such a passion for it that it’s all he thought about. He said he watched her when she danced to the jazz music earlier in the night and it made him feel so alive. She told him to never give up, hold onto that feeling that makes you glad you were born at all. At this point she thought he was going to kiss her. He went to bed instead. From this moment she has been in love with him and can no longer listen to jazz music unless she’s been drinking.

Now, they sit under blankets in the backseat at two in the morning, Natasha’s feet in his lap and her skin pink in the moonlight. She’s stopped putting on make up and wearing proper outfits to come and see him; she sits in her black cotton pyjamas that pass as clothes when she wears a coat and boots. “At least he’s no longer contagious,” she says.

“He could be.”

“He could also not be. If you were going to catch pneumonia, you would have pneumonia by now.”

“I guess.”

“When is he being discharged?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you give me more than three words, please?”

He finishes off the bottle and tosses it out the window. “I don’t like rum.”

“Could have fooled me.”

Darkness and a silence he doesn’t need to fill. “Did you hear,” he says, “about the evacuation of the people of Bilbao?”

“Isn’t that the little man from the books you read?”

“It’s in Spain. They got most of them out overnight, cos they think the Nationalists are gonna try and take the town soon.”

“Why do you only want to talk about the news?”

“I talk about other stuff.”

“Not to me. To me, it is news, and responses.”

Bucky sighs, gives up on being defensive because she’s right. “What do you wanna talk about?”

She takes his hand under the blanket. Her skin is soft and warm. “The question is not what I want to know. It’s what you want to say.”

He fishes as deep as he can while his head is spinning, tries to filter himself so that his morning self doesn’t have an uncomfortable situation to deal with.

He ends up saying, “I’m just so scared, all the time.”

Natasha nods and squeezes his hand. “If it helps, you don’t look it.”

“It helps.”

When she leans closer to him, he closes his eyes. She rests her head on his chest, lying between his legs with the blanket over both of them, and he is not disappointed, or surprised, that she didn’t kiss him. He doesn’t know what he was expecting. But he closed his eyes. What’s going on?

* * *

The planning for Steve’s birthday is begun a few days later after Steve puts his pillow over his face and says, “I’m never getting out of this fuckin’ place.”

“Language,” Sarah says.

“I’m gonna die here. One way or another.”

Bucky just rolls his eyes at the dramatics. He assumes Steve is being ironic, complaining like this. He assumes this until Steve takes the pillow off his face and Bucky sees just how tired he is.

It’s a look Bucky recognises from his own face, when he pays attention to it, sneaking a look in the mirror in the middle of the night when things in his mind stop him from dreaming. “Pneumonia is treatable,” he reminds Steve. “You should be fine soon.”

“I’m still gonna be in here, though, ain’t I?” Steve says, quiet. “God, forget it.” He shakes his head. “Forget it. Sorry. Do you want my jello cup? I don’t like the yellow ones.”

“The yellow ones are the best ones,” Bucky replies, picking it up, and starts thinking about how to break into places without it being illegal.

The planning takes less time than he’d thought, though. It only takes him a couple of hours of research, walking around the city and planning routes. He notes down the directions just to be sure, never going from one place to the other before. It’s over-preparation, but that’s Bucky’s middle name. (Thankfully not the middle name that his nickname came from.)

He tells himself the only reason he’s planning this so much is because he cares so much about Steve, and because they’ve barely seen each other recently, but he knows that’s not true. That it’s for him, too. That he wants Steve all to himself, not in public, not with Steve’s mom or a doctor. Bucky has been drifting. Steve deserves more attention, more effort.

When he gets home from his walk around the city, there’s a letter for him in the post. It’s from Cambridge. He takes the envelope up to his room, knowing that his mom would chastise him to no end about not telling them he’s deferring yet. He’s too tired after a long day at work for an earful.

Inside the envelope is a welcome pack. A letter about his accommodation, where he’s going to be staying. A timetable for the course. God, it sounds great. Excitement rises in him that he can’t help. He tells himself, you’re going in a year. You’re going to get to do all this in a year. But it doesn’t help, and he can’t quite believe himself. Maybe Sarah was right.

He throws the envelope in the trash and writes a letter to Cambridge explaining his situation. He’s polite and cordial and ensures them that he’ll be there to study next year, ready to learn, fall of 1938. He puts the letter in an envelope and seals it and puts it on his desk to deal with later.

* * *

July 3rd, 1937. The United States Marine Corps is reported to contain an active strength of 1,312 officers and 16,911 enlisted men. By order of the Navy Department, all Reserve tactical squadrons are now scouting squadrons. And Steve is seventeen, for now.

He lies in bed on his last legal day of childhood and stares at the ceiling. His mom is reading next to him, a cooking magazine slipped in between the pages where she thinks he won’t notice. Hopefully it’s a chocolate cake this year; she never lets him choose, always wants it to be a surprise. Every year he wants it to be a chocolate cake and every year it’s something different, but always perfect. But that doesn’t stop him from wishing for chocolate cake.

When she puts down her book he notices that he was mistaken; there isn’t a magazine in there at all. It hits him that he’s in hospital. He can’t have a birthday cake. No outside foods, especially with his new fragile immune system.

For a moment this thought makes him incredibly sad. But then Bucky comes in, singing the graduation march.

“’Cos I’m graduating into adulthood?” Steve guesses.

“Got it in one.” Bucky sits on the bed and tucks his legs under himself. “So what’s the plan for tomorrow? Are we celebratin’? Huh? We gonna have some kinda party in here? Want me to sneak in some booze?”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Sarah says from behind her book.

“No plans,” Steve says, and smiles when Bucky rolls his eyes. “You know I’m not really a party kind of guy.”

“So, what, you wanna play board games or somethin’? Read books?”

“Board games actually sounds really fun-”

“That was a _joke_.”

“I know, but it’s actually a good idea-”

“Sarah, I must say, you’re looking good considering you have an eighty-five-year-old son.”

“Stop!” Steve cries and slaps Bucky’s arm. He’s ripe from work in his overalls and fish stink that Steve can no longer smell, face shiny with sweat and oil. God, he looks so old like this. How much does Bucky try to fit into his life at once? How does he have time for anything? No wonder Steve hardly gets to see him.

They hang out for a few hours until it’s time for Bucky to head home, but he surprises everyone by revealing that he’s sleeping here tonight.

“I cleared it with the doctor,” he tells Steve and Sarah, who stare at him unabashedly. “I thought I’d just grab a chair. So I can be here for the big one-eight.”

“Don’t you have to be at work at eight?” Steve asks.

“Yeah. But that’s alright. If I leave at seven, I’ll have time to go home and shower before work. It’s no problem,” he adds, probably because Steve is smiling so much.

“I think it’s wonderful,” Sarah says, but her face would disagree.

Now that Bucky is staying, Steve and Sarah’s usual practise seems embarrassing. After Bucky leaves, Sarah usually reads to him until he falls asleep. It’s childish, but it’s comforting, it’s what they know, what they’ve always known: each other and words. With Bucky here, it seems less special, less isolated and more strange and immature, so he doesn’t bring it up with his mom before they settle down to go to sleep. It makes it harder for him to fall asleep, but that’s alright. At least now he has a chance of staying up longer than Bucky.

He’s up for hours and Bucky still hasn’t fallen asleep, though. God. Is this what he’s like every night? Feet up on the edge of the bed in the blue woollen socks Sarah had made him, now with holes in them from excessive use, revealing the clean pink feet inside.

It’s around eleven when Bucky whispers, “Stevie.”

“It’s my birthday. You gotta quit callin’ me that.”

“It’s not your birthday yet.” He sits up in the darkness, the silhouette shifting. “C’mon, get up. I gotta give you your present.”

He follows Bucky through the corridors of the hospital, the lights dim but a few nurses still milling around on the night shift. Bucky moves slowly and quietly, keeps looking over his shoulder to check that Steve is right behind him. Steve wraps his coat tighter around himself, Bucky having insisted that he get fully dressed and wrap up warm, for some reason.

“Where are we going?” Steve asks, but Bucky just shushes him for the third time.

Footsteps approach around the corner when they’re in the stairwell and Bucky moves backwards, hides inside a doorframe and pulls Steve in after him, grabbing his hand and keeping hold of it until they wait for the person to pass. Now Steve’s really confused. Why is Bucky being so secretive? Where in the hospital are they going?

“You can let go of my hand now,” Steve whispers, and Bucky drops it without looking round and moves back out into the hallway. Down the stairs, down until they reach the ground floor, out into the reception.

A lady behind the desk. Steve presses up behind Bucky to watch her over his shoulder. A middle-aged woman, looking exhausted and world-weary, her eyelids starting to droop.

“Bucky-” Steve starts, but Bucky shushes him again and whispers, “Three… two… one…”

The lady behind the desk gives in to her exhaustion and her head falls backwards.

“Bingo,” Bucky whispers, grinning at Steve. “Old Muriel always falls asleep around this time.”

“Always? How long have you been watching her?”

“I’ve been plannin’ this for a while, Stevie boy.” He grabs Steve’s hand again and pulls him out into the reception, drags him along towards the big double doors that mark the entrance.

“Whoa.” Steve stops and Bucky’s hand is ripped from his. Bucky whirls and stares at him, mere feet from the exit. “Buck. I can’t go out there.”

“How come?” Bucky pouts, practically bouncing with excited energy, trying hard to contain his smile, palm on the door handle in illicit anticipation.

“’Cos I’ve got pneumonia, that’s why!”

Bucky waves him off. “You’re practically cured. C’mon. Don’t you wanna see what I’ve got planned?”

Steve hesitates.

Bucky continues, “I looked it up. It won’t harm you. You think I’d let somethin’ bad happen to ya?” He tuts and shakes his head. “Honestly.”

Steve holds out his hand. Bucky grins and takes it and pulls him out into the fresh air that hits him like a brick wall. It’s fresh and crisp and god, it feels so good to be outside. It’s been months. Actual months since he’s felt clean air like this. Ground, not floor, beneath his feet. Wind, not breeze, in his hair. As birthday presents go, this is a good one.

“Okay,” Steve says after a few minutes. “Let’s go back in now.”

Bucky laughs, loud and brash and full because they’re outside now and they don’t have to be quiet. “Are you kiddin’ me? That’s not the present.”

“Then give it to me.”

Bucky tugs him left, round the side of the building, through the low trees and onto some tarmac, moving too fast for Steve to keep up, keeps having to make himself slow down so he doesn’t lift Steve off his feet. “How long have you been plannin’ this?” Steve calls to him.

They emerge into the parking lot and Bucky’s car is sitting in the closest possible spot. “I told ya. A while.”

Bucky opens the door for Steve, and Steve snorts as he slides in, puts his feet up on the dashboard and pulls a blanket onto his lap from the backseat. Bucky backs out of the spot and starts driving down the empty road.

“Now will you tell me where we’re goin’?” Steve asks.

“Wait and see.”

Bucky’s smile refuses to go away.

“Stop lookin’ at me,” Bucky says. “Look out the window! Don’t you wanna be surprised?”

Steve glues his eyes on the front windscreen. He vaguely recognises the road they’re on, has definitely been on it before, but he doesn’t get out a whole bunch, probably has only been here a few times before. The city opens up a little to a more residential area; quiet, suburban, with more streetlights and fewer people. Wait, he recognises that street.

They’re at the high school. They’ve come the opposite way to how Steve usually gets there, but they’re at the high school.

“Is this your way of forcin’ me to get my GED?” Steve asks as they pull over by the side of the road in front of the building, the gate to the grounds sitting locked in front of them.

“I dunno what it’s my way of doin’,” Bucky says, looking around him at the sights, the classrooms and the bleachers and that big field, desaturated and more real with the vacant night. “I just thought you’d like it. I just thought…” He shrugs, looking confused and a little cornered. “I guess this is the first time I’ve stopped to think about it.”

“I get it,” Steve says, trying to make his voice as kind as possible, understanding, wishing to get through to Bucky in this moment. What is it about the night in a car that makes everything feel so important? “It’s a good present.”

“Glad you like it.”

Steve settles down, pulls the blanket up to his chin, reaches to turn the radio on, but Bucky smacks his hand away.

“Ow. What was that for?”

“You think we’re stayin’ out here?”

“God. What now?”

Bucky gets out of the car. Steve watches him through the window as he approaches the gate to the school, then walks to the tall hedge beside it. Bucky flashes Steve a shit eating grin before squatting down and parting the bottom of the hedge to reveal a hole.

“Fuck,” Steve breathes.

Bucky waves him over.

“Fuck,” Steve says to himself again. “Don’t get out of the car.”

He gets out of the car. It’s freezing, and god, it’s glorious! It’s beautiful how cold he is. He’s been under blankets and next to radiators for months now, fake heat and fake air, and this is all so real. Bucky takes his hand again and helps him get on the ground, holds up the hedge as he crawls through, dirt under his fingers and scratches up and down his back, pitch black for a second as he’s enveloped in the growth, and then he’s out and standing and trespassing and doing everything he always thought a successful youth should do, illegality and illicity and secretivity and illegality again.

He helps Bucky to his feet as he pushes through afterwards and they look out onto the pitch.

“Okay,” Bucky says, a little breathless. “This is the present.”

“It’s perfect.”

“Happy birthday, kiddo.”

“Kiddo?”

“I’m your elder. I can only call you kiddo for the next,” he checks his watch, “fifteen minutes. So I gotta make the most of it, kiddo.”

“If you’re my elder, surely that means I can call you somethin’ back. What’s the old equivalent of kiddo?”

“Fountain of intelligence and life experience?”

“Nah. I’ll just call you old.”

Bucky doesn’t look it anymore. He looks shining and new, came through the hole in the hedge and emerged in all the stinky crap that comes with birth, crap like excitement and honesty and a big stupid smile, god! It’s so great! He just wants to grab Bucky and, and let him know how much he loves his present, just shake him and shake him and shout that he loves it! He loves it! He’ll never stop loving it.

The sky is so bright with stars that Steve has to squint when he looks up. Bucky notices him looking at it, stands beside him and looks at it too, nods his approval before laying down on his back on the wet grass and patting the space next to him.

“But it’s all wet,” Steve says, and hates himself for it. What use is all this feeling if he’s not gonna take any risks?

Bucky takes off his jacket and lays it on the ground next to him. It fits all of Steve inside the edges, if he tucks his knees up and lets his feet stay on the grass.

“Thanks,” he tells Bucky, and his voice comes out quieter than he means it to.

“No problem,” Bucky replies, even quieter.

Steve wraps his arms around himself and it all feels too good to be true. The clear night air is helping his breathing, and he was having a good day anyway, so it almost feels as if he’s not sick at all. He’s a lucky guy, he thinks, to have a friend like Bucky, who would do something like this for him. It must have taken some planning, to watch the shifts, to sneak him out so smoothly. All for Steve, all for this moment.

And what a moment it is. He feels like he could lie here forever, his shoulder brushing Bucky’s and Bucky’s chest rising and falling in the corner of his eye. It’s one of those moments where you’re sitting in time. Where you remember that clocks and dates are fictional, invented so that we show up on time for things. Time goes on and on and on and doesn’t give a damn about you because it’s been doing its thing for billions of years before you showed up. Steve could look at the clock to tell him it’s ten to midnight on a Thursday. But he doesn’t want to. Because when time feels like this, it feels like it won’t end.

“You cold?” Bucky asks.

“No.”

“You’re shiverin’.”

“I’m fine,” Steve says through chattering teeth.

Bucky starts to sit up. “We can go–”

“No,” Steve says immediately.

Bucky holds up his hands. “Alright, but we can at least find a bench or somethin’–”

“No, I like it here.” Steve grabs the back of Bucky’s shirt and pulls him back down.

“I don’t want your mom gettin’ on at me if you come home with a cold,” Bucky jokes, but concedes, relaxing back onto the grass and leaning his knees against Steve’s.

“She won’t know it’s you. Not like we’re gonna tell her about this.”

“Fair point. So,” Bucky says, flopping his head to the left to look at Steve with a wicked grin. “This is a _secret_.”

Steve wrinkles his nose in confusion. “I guess. Does that matter?”

“You gotta know when somethin’s a secret. See,” he whispers, “now we gotta talk like this.”

Steve laughs. “I’m not doin’ that.”

“You gotta,” Bucky whispers. “It’s a secret.”

“You sound like an idiot. There’s no-one around for a half mile.”

“Steve,” Bucky whispers, fixing him with a serious look, furrowed eyebrows and all. “You’re breaking the rules.”

Steve grins so hard he thinks his face’ll crack, split in two and fall right off and stay on this field forever while he goes back to hospital. “My apologies,” he whispers. “I didn’t know there were rules.”

“You’re forgiven.” Bucky looks back up at the sky and his face relaxes. “I know how much you love rules. So I thought I’d let you know.”

“I love rules?”

“Yeah, you know, you’re always on time to class, do all your assignments as soon as you get ‘em, _never_ cut math just cos ya don’t like it.”

“You know me too well.”

There’s quiet for a moment while they both smile and let the joke pass. Steve thinks about all the things that have happened to him since he’s met Bucky. He’s been to his first party, and his second party. He’s had his first drink, and his second, and however many more he’d had that he can’t remember too well. He’s made friends. He’s had people other than his mother visit him in hospital. He’s had people other than his mother in his house. He’s had someone else in his bed. He’s lain in bed thinking about when someone else was in his bed. He’s lain in bed thinking about someone else. He’s had to lie to himself for the first time in his life and he’s realised that it’s not that hard to pretend that it’s nothing, that it’s just eagerness at having his first friend, that it’s loyalty and the passion he feels is just passion for life.

But he doesn’t have passion for life. Life is hard and dirty and painful and it’s never been kind to Steve. Some things in life, though, are kind to Steve, and those are the things that he’s passionate about.

“What are ya gonna wish for?” Bucky whispers after a sufficient amount of time has passed.

“When I blow out my candles? I don’t get a birthday cake in hospital,” Steve whispers back.

“Are you serious?” Even in the moonlight Steve sees Bucky’s outrage. “That’s bullshit!”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. You need to make a wish on your birthday. Those are the rules.”

“God forbid I break a rule.”

Bucky checks his watch, squints at it in the encapsulating dark. “Okay, it’s either five minutes to midnight, or it’s six thirty.”

“Too dark to be six thirty.”

“You’re right. So when it goes midnight, you gotta make your wish. That’s the new rule.”

“Why midnight?”

“When else are ya gonna do it? You can’t do it next midnight cos it won’t be your birthday. You can’t do it when you have your puddin’ cup, there’s no magic to that, and magic is what makes the wishes come true.”

“Of course,” Steve replies, blushing slightly at the idea that Bucky thinks this moment is magic, too.

“Okay. So start thinkin’ of your wish. You got… four minutes and five seconds. Four. Three…”

“Alright, alright.” Steve closes his eyes and starts pretending to think of a wish.

“You got one?” Bucky asks after a few minutes.

“I think so.”

“Good, cos you got about thirty seconds left of bein’ seventeen.”

“Aw, man, I gotta get in all my jokes about how you’re an old man in the next thirty seconds?” Steve asks, and Bucky laughs.

“Good luck trynna beat _kiddo,_ I mean, that was a classic.”

“You’d know all about the classics, you were there when they were written, grandpa. God, I can smell you from here. Mothballs and out-of-date chicken soup.”

“You’re a little punk, you know that?”

“Sorry, did you want me to speak louder? Are you hard of hearing?”

“Ten seconds,” Bucky tells him through gritted teeth and a smile, holding his wrist above his face to keep an eye on the countdown.

“Uh… you’re old.”

“Good one.”

“Fuck, you’re puttin’ me on the spot!”

“Tough luck! And… you’re eighteen.” Bucky puts his arm down and turns to Steve, propping himself up on his elbow. “How does it feel? You ‘boutta go play bridge and pinch some cheeks with me? Huh?”

“Of course not. Eighteen is too young for those things. Maybe when I’m _nineteen_ …”

Bucky punches him in the arm. “You’re _such_ a punk.”

“You can’t hit me on my birthday!” Steve cries, rolling around under Bucky’s fist.

“That ain’t a rule!”

“How come you’re in charge of all the rules, huh?”

“I’m the rule _master._ ”

“You’re a _jerk,_ that’s what you are,” Steve laughs as he pushes Bucky’s arm out from under him and Bucky falls back onto the grass.

“Happy birthday, Stevie,” Bucky mumbles, the fight drained out of him, bumping Steve’s shoulder with his.

“Thanks. But no callin’ me Stevie on my birthday.”

“That ain’t a rule. Sorry. Rule master says so. Stevie.”

“I hate you,” Steve tells him.

Bucky laughs like he knows it’s the opposite.

“What’d’ya wish for?” Bucky asks, back to whispering.

“I can’t tell you that. Or it won’t come true.”

“Can you give me a hint?”

“I’m not sure. Can I?"

“Sure ya can. I give hints all the time.”

“Have any of your wishes come true?”

“Well, I’m not playin’ for the Dodgers, so I guess not.”

“Now it’ll never happen, cos you just told me your wish.”

“Damnit! Now I’ll never be a professional baseball player. This is the only reason that’ll never happen!”

Steve giggles, and is immediately embarrassed that he just giggled, but Bucky doesn’t seem to have noticed. “Alright, you want a hint?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s somethin’ I’ve been wantin’ for a while.”

“Well, duh, if you’re wishin’ for it, obviously you _want_ it. Gimme a better hint.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You’re so high maintenance.”

“And proud of it.”

“It’s… somethin’ to do with another person.”

“Also duh. Not like you’re gonna want a new sofa or somethin’.”

“Why not? Why can’t I want a sofa?”

“Cos you’re Steve,” Bucky says, like it’s obvious. “You get one wish, you’re not gonna want _stuff._ ”

Steve’s blush spreads as he processes how highly Bucky must think of him. But he tries not to process it too much. It’s a secret night, but it still exists.

“If that’s not a good enough hint for ya, I can’t think of anythin’ else. Why don’t you just ask me a question?” Steve asks, turning onto his side with his legs tucked underneath him and his arms wrapped around himself.

Bucky turns too, faces Steve so they have no choice but to look at each other. “Alright. Lemme think.”

There’s a sudden pop as a single firework goes off in the distance. Bucky jumps in surprise, bursts out a fast laugh and looks at Steve with a grin. “Had to be born on Fourth of July, didn’t ya?”

Steve just shrugs. “Not like I could help it.”

Facing each other like this, Steve feels Bucky’s breath on his face. Bucky himself is shaking with the cold, jacketless and lying on the wet grass like he is. Steve wants to offer something – Bucky’s jacket, his own jacket, anything – but he knows that if he gets any colder he’ll be in danger. It feels awful, looking at Bucky shaking and knowing that it’s his fault. He can’t even touch Bucky, hug him or try and warm him up. Maybe that’s something friends would do, but that’s not the point. Steve’s trying not to do anything that would make him feel things he shouldn’t be feeling.

No, that’s ridiculous. If friends would do it, why can’t they do it? What friend wouldn’t give another friend a friendly rub on the arm? It’s perfectly friendly – and scientific fact – that another person’s body heat will warm you up. Is he gonna let Bucky freeze like this cos he’s worried about himself?

Steve shuffles on the coat, moves himself a couple of inches forwards so that he’s closer to Bucky. When he looks to Bucky, the other boy is watching him, something close to confusion in his face.

“You’re cold,” Steve whispers, by way of explanation.

Bucky doesn’t try and deny it. He just nods, but the expression on his face continues, so close to confusion but not quite reaching it, still in the realm of another emotion that Steve can’t place.

The plan in Steve’s head is to rub his hand up and down Bucky’s arm. This will create friction, which creates heat, which will warm Bucky up again, and he will stop shaking. It makes sense, this friendly plan. In his head, it makes perfect sense.

When Steve’s hand touches Bucky’s arm, Bucky’s breathing stops. A fraction of a second later, it resumes, louder, as if to mask the gap.

Steve takes his hand back and curses himself for his stupidity. He’d forgotten Bucky’s role in all this. Forgotten his suspicions. Forgotten what happens when he and Bucky touch: something. Always, something happens.

Bucky clears his throat, licks his lips, mouth so dry that Steve can hear it.

“Do you have a question?” Steve whispers. Bucky could either answer with a change of subject, something like, _is it pink with purple feathers?_ Or he could answer with something even more dangerous, more threatening than the cold.

Bucky clears his throat again and whispers, “Yeah. Uh.” He’s still shaking, maybe more than before, and his eyes are screwed shut, most likely against the cold. He doesn’t seem in any rush to ask his question, but Steve is patient, waits.

Another firework goes off, and Bucky winces. Without thinking, Steve puts out his hand again, puts it on the same place on Bucky’s arm as it was before.

Always, something happens, when they touch. This time, Bucky stops shaking immediately.

Steve fights every urge in his body that tells him to take his hand away, to run as far as he can away from Bucky. Fight or flight. To stay is to fight against everything else his body is telling him.

“Is it,” Bucky whispers, eyes still closed, “something you’re not allowed to want?”

Steve’s fingers tighten on Bucky’s arm.

“Yes.”

“Then I know what it is.”

“You do? Go on then, don’t keep me in suspense, Buck.”

Bucky laughs without sound at the nickname he hates. “Yeah. It’s a dog, right? And you’re not allowed dogs in your apartment building?”

Something close to disappointment washes through Steve. A small part of him had been hoping it would be addressed, so he could stop feeling like he was crazy. “Yeah, you got me,” he says, not bothering with whispers now the moment’s over. “Was gonna call him Rex. Now it’ll never come true. Hope you’re happy.”

He lies on his back and tries not to look annoyed.

“Sorry, pal,” Bucky whispers, before saying, “Rex is a shitty name anyway.”

“Don’t say that. He can hear you.”

“He doesn’t exist!”

“He does in my imagination. And my imagination is right. Here.” Steve taps his forehead.

“Sorry, Rex,” Bucky says to Steve’s forehead.

“He says you’re an asshole.”

“He’s a talking dog?”

“Sure is. You think I’m gonna have a regular dog in my imagination? Give me some credit, I’m more creative than that.”

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll just stop talking. I keep insultin’ you and your talkin’ dog.”

“Nah, we forgive you.”

Bucky checks his watch and Steve hopes to God he doesn’t tell Steve the time. Has it been an hour? Half an hour? Ten minutes? He doesn’t know, and that’s the way he likes it. The only suggestion he has right now is the sky, and it’s still pitch black. While it’s pitch black, they have all night.

Except they don’t. They have another few hours, and then they have to go back to the hospital, find some way to sneak in, which is a lot harder than sneaking out. They have to go to sleep and spend tomorrow acting like they’re not exhausted. Then two weeks later, Bucky will be gone. Three thousand miles away. For a year, at least. Depending on the money, he might be gone two. Or three. Or four. He might meet a girl and get married. He might knock her up and start a family. In four years he’ll be twenty-two. That’s the age of adults. That’s not the age you make mistakes at, mistakes like Steve. In four years Bucky will be a different person and he won’t have space for Steve in his mind full of college learning. And even if he did, who’s to say Steve would have four more years anyway? Or three, or two, or one?

Bucky tells him it’s twenty past midnight. They should probably get back around two if they wanna get a good sleep; Bucky’s idea, he hadn’t wanted Steve to be exhausted on his birthday, and besides, less than six hours would be bad for Steve’s health. So they have an hour and forty minutes. When they get back to the hospital, it’ll be talking in front of Sarah for two weeks. Pretending they’re brothers for two weeks. Being able to touch each other, but not being able to talk, for two weeks.

This is the last chance Steve has to ask.

“What?” Bucky asks, because Steve is staring at him.

“I’m gonna ask you a question,” Steve whispers. “Bear in mind it’s my birthday. And you’re going away for a year. And you’re my best friend.”

“Alright,” Bucky whispers, smiling like he’s amused but worry pinching a wrinkle into his forehead. “Go on.”

“That night at Scott’s house. What was the matter with you?”

Bucky freezes for half a second before turning, from his side onto his back. He rests his hands on his stomach and sighs. “I thought I told you it was about me likin’ boys.”

“I don’t believe that. It was somethin’ else.” The truth comes tumbling out of Steve, his thoughts perfectly in order. He must have thought about this more than he’d realised. “There’s this look you get sometimes, and I don’t know what it is. I only see it on you when you think I’m not lookin’, like you’re keepin’ it from me, and I… I guess I thought that if somethin’ bothered you so much, you’d tell me. You told me about likin’ boys, you told me you were scared of a war… I don’t wanna make this about me. I just can’t stand the idea of you bein’ off in England, writin’ letters to me all happy like you’re okay. Cos I know you’re not gonna tell me about it in a letter. So it’s now or never. And I gotta know, Buck, are you okay? _Is_ there somethin’, or am I bein’ paranoid?”

When he finishes talking, the silence is so great it feels like a vacuum, not just an emptiness but an absence. Bucky doesn’t appear to have reacted; when Steve glances over he’s in the exact same position, looking off to the right at the moon low in the sky, so low it’s like it’s looking out at them from the top of a lighthouse. Steve wants to wave his arms at it; he’s lost at sea. He doesn’t feel up to drowning again.

Just as Steve begins to wonder if Bucky’s actually fallen asleep, Bucky sighs again and shrugs. “I dunno how to put it into words.”

“You don’t gotta, if you don’t want to.”

“No, I… I wanna. I guess I should have told you a long time ago. I mean, you’re the only person I’d tell, and I gotta tell _someone_. It’s just hard to explain.”

“Try.”

Bucky shrugs again and turns his head towards Steve, but looks out over the field behind him instead of Steve himself. “It’s...” Bucky pushes his hair back and keeps hold of a handful. “There’s just somethin’ wrong inside me. I get real sad sometimes and I got no reason to be sad.”

“How can you be sad without a reason?”

“I dunno. But it happens.”

“Is that why you can’t sleep?”

“Yeah. It’s bad at night.”

“What does it feel like?” Steve asks. He wants to understand, because he doesn’t. He’s never heard of anything like this.

Bucky takes a deep breath. Steve hears it shake, hears it rattle in Bucky’s chest. A pause as he holds it, and a burst as he lets it all out at once.

“God, I dunno. It feels like the whole world is endin’. Like I’m the only person that’s alive. Like all the decisions I’ve ever made are wrong. And I gotta be honest, Stevie, I really don’t like myself at all.”

Steve’s head spins and his heart hurts. His hand reaches out for Bucky in the darkness, finds his forearm, and holds onto it tightly. “I don’t suppose I can change that.”

“Don’t think so. You’ve been singin’ my praises for months now, and I don’t feel any different.”

“I never would have guessed… you just… you seem so fine. Most of the time.”

“It gets quieter in the daytime, when I’m busy.”

It dawns on Steve. “And when you’re laughin’.”

Bucky snorts. “God, you’re back on that?”

“I’m right. Aren’t I?”

“Yeah, yeah. You got it.”

Steve nods to himself, putting together the pieces of the puzzle that’s been lying there in his mind for over half a year. “And that’s why you need me, right? To make you laugh.”

“I did. I don’t anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I like to think we’re friends now, yeah? That I’m keepin’ ya around for other reasons. Not just my little dancin’ monkey.”

“Fuck you, I’m not your monkey.”

“I never thought you were, that was your idea. I always just knew I felt better when I was around you.”

Steve feels his heartbeat in his fingers, his toes, even places it shouldn’t be, like his legs, his arms, his mouth. “Cos of all the jokes?”

“No. Believe it or not, you’re not that funny.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Bucky smiles, sighs again. “Well, there it is. You know all my secrets. Do I know all of yours?”  
  
“Yes,” Steve lies, then adds, “Look, Buck, if you’re unhappy… I want you to tell me if you ever feel like doing anythin’… reckless.”

“But danger’s my middle name.”

“I’m serious. I can’t have you livin’ halfway across the world without me to stop you from doing anythin’ stupid, without the promise that you’ll write to me and tell me, hey Steve, I’m thinkin’ of doing somethin’ stupid.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

Actual, tangible fear grows in Steve. “Bucky?”

“Did you hear about the bombing in Guernica? It’s a Spanish city. The Germans and the Italians did it. They killed around a thousand civilians.”

Steve blinks, frowns. “No, I didn’t hear.”

“What about Hitler’s speech where he said all we need is one political party? What about when he ordered all German children to be raised as Nazis?” He waits for Steve’s answer.

“No.”

“What about when they ordered that Jewish prisoners be treated different to regular prisoners? Did you hear about that?”

“No,” Steve says, more forcefully.

“We’ve only got eighteen thousand guys in our army. That’s nothin’. You can’t tell me they’re not gonna start conscripting. Forcin’ guys to enlist, whether by law or by guilt. Shaming all the guys who aren’t fightin’. I know it would work on me. I wouldn’t be able to take it, the shame.”

“Why are you tellin’ me this?” Steve asks, a little annoyance creeping into his voice. If Bucky is changing the subject, he’s not doing it very well.

“To reassure you.” He puts one of his hands on top of Steve’s, where it still holds Bucky’s arm. “I don’t wanna die, Stevie.”

The name isn’t funny anymore.

“You really think there’s gonna be a war, don’t you?”

Bucky nods. “The stuff they’re doin’ over there. Someone’s gotta stop it.”

“You know I’d go with you.”

“I know.”

“In a second. If they’d let me.”

“I know.”

Steve feels so tired, all of a sudden. His head slumps to the side and lands on Bucky’s shoulder. It’s the closest they’ve ever been. Steve can feel Bucky’s jaw on his forehead. His breath is probably landing on Bucky’s neck.

“You’re not contagious anymore, right?” Bucky whispers.

Steve laughs. “No. Well, I don’t think so. I could be. So far I’m not, but I could be.”

There’s a beat while Bucky processes. Then in one swift movement, he’s turning, casting Steve’s head off his shoulder to wrap one arm around his waist and lean his head on Steve’s chest.

Steve burns from head to foot. He realises it’s because he’s stopped breathing.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks in a harsh whisper, as loud as a whisper can get.

“You said you could be contagious.”

“So?”

“So.”

Steve frowns. And then he laughs. “Wait.” He laughs some more. “You’re trynna catch what I have? Cos I’m not fit for duty?”

“Sure. Best shot I have, right?”

“This doesn’t count as bein’ reckless?”

“I’d say it counts as bein’ safe, actually.”

Steve laughs so hard Bucky has to lift up his head. “You’re a real jerk,” Steve tells him through tears. “You’re a real asshole, Bucky.”

Bucky grins at him. “I was bein’ serious.”

“I know! That’s what makes you such an asshole!”

Bucky sits up and leans his elbows on his knees while Steve wipes tears from his eyes. After a moment, Steve sits up too. They look out at the school building; the nurse’s office where they met, the classrooms where they sat together for years without noticing, the bleachers behind which Steve got beat up. What if they’d become friends years before? Freshman year? Where would they be now? Jail, probably.

“You’re my best friend too,” Bucky says.

“Good to know.”

“I mean it. I know I’ve got more friends than you, but you’re my favourite.”

“I’m honoured.”

“I _mean_ it.” Bucky bumps Steve’s shoulder with his. “I’m with ya ‘til the end of the line, pal.”

Steve smiles at the dramatics of it. It sounds like a sentence Bucky has been thinking up for a while. It’s careful, and precise, and incredibly general, and it’s exactly what Steve needs right now.

“I’m with you too, Buck.”

He closes his eyes, and lets it wash over him, and thinks about his wish, thinks about how he would do anything to make it come true before the, as Bucky calls it, end of the line.

* * *

When he turns eighteen, Steve is woken up. His mother pats his shoulder and whispers, “It’s four thirty-six. I gave birth to you exactly eighteen years ago. Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Steve blinks the sleep from his eyes and smiles in his mother’s general direction, spies Bucky asleep in the corner with his legs curled up beneath him. “Thanks for giving birth to me, mom.”

“You’re welcome. Glad I only had to do it the once.”

She lets him go back to sleep, lets him have his birthday lie-in until around eleven or so. When he wakes up, Bucky’s not there. He assumed Bucky would be there. But he’s at work again, won’t be around until seven or so.

“James left around seven,” his mom tells him before he asks. “Which I thought was strange, seeing as he slept here last night to be here when you woke up.”

Steve frowns, thinks it’s strange too, until he remembers that’s not the reason he’d slept here at all. He smiles to himself at the memory of the night before.

His mom gives him his present, a (thoroughly used) record player. It reminds Steve of what he’d asked of Bucky, to give him a ‘musical education’ like the literary one Steve had given him. Hopefully Bucky will realise how hard of a job it is to give someone an education in an extremely wide genre with only a dollar of pocket money.

What a strange feeling, to legally be an adult. He can vote in the next election, has to start thinking about who he supports. Roosevelt seems like the best option after his first term had been so successful, but really he knows nothing about politics, never had to until now.

They take a walk around the ward and Dr Carter gives him a present of a nice notebook – “For your writing.” “I don’t write.” “You don’t? You should.” – and they eat lunch cross legged on the bed with the Monopoly board between them. Steve is ruthless and Sarah remarks that adulthood has changed him, and he laughs and laughs, and if he coughs a little more than he had the day before, it’s no big deal.

* * *

 

The next letter from Cambridge is waiting on his bed when he gets home from work.

Bucky stands in his doorway and stares at it for a long time.

“She’s trying to be supportive,” Rebecca remarks, sidling up behind him and resting her chin on his shoulder. “By not opening your mail.”

“Putting it on my bed seems a bit vindictive.”

“What else was she meant to do? Bin it? What are you doing here, anyway? Isn’t it Steve’s birthday?”

“Had to grab his present.”

“What’dya get him?”

“I was gonna give him your diary.”

“I don’t have a diary.”

“Sure ya do. The one under your mattress.”

Rebecca pauses before saying, “It has a lock.”

“I know. I was gonna give it to Steve to see if he could pick it with his nimble fingers.”

“You’re an asshole. What does the letter say?”

“You think I have x-ray vision?”

“Go open it then, idiot.”

Bucky shrugs her off his shoulder and grabs the envelope from his bed. Rebecca hovers, always nosey, as he rips it open and unfolds the letter.

“They need a cheque,” he murmurs as he reads. “For my accommodation. A deposit.”

“Are ya gonna give it to ‘em?”

“Well, no.”

“Coulda fooled me.” She looks pointedly at the letter he’d written to tell them he’s deferring, sitting there on his desk, unaddressed, unstamped, unsent.

“I’ll get around to it,” Bucky shrugs, and puts the letter he’s holding in his desk drawer.

“Want me to do it for you?”

“No.”

“A-ha!”

“Only cos you’ll mess it up.”

“How can you mess up sending a letter?”

“You’ll probably end up sending it to Cambridge, Massachusetts, knowing you.”

“Jokes on you, I didn’t even know that was a place.”

“Would you go away?”

“Fine. But you know what’s not going away? Your conscience.” She waves her hands and goes ‘oooooo’ before ducking out of the room.

Bucky sits on his bed, takes the letter out the drawer and looks at it again. Why is it that he can’t send the letter? Why can’t he let it go? Why does he keep thinking about it like it’s happening? Is it because Steve is getting better? Because he is. Last night he’d barely been ill at all, only coughed once or twice, small ones that could pass as a cold instead of a life threatening illness. He seems better. He’s getting better, right? There’s still a chance? That he could get out of hospital and Bucky could still go?

But that’s selfish. He throws the letters from Cambridge in his bin, disgusted at himself. His friend’s health should be his first priority – no, his _only_ priority. Even if college comes second, it’s too close a second. It shouldn’t even be on his mind right now. Just because Steve seems better doesn’t mean he’s out of the woods. He’s still got asthma, still could be hit with an attack any moment that they aren’t able to stop.

It pisses him off that modern medicine doesn’t know anything about this stupid illness. How is it 1937 and everything isn’t cured yet?

He grabs Steve’s present and drives to the hospital, pushes open the door to Steve’s room, as he’s still in a private one on the off chance that he’s contagious. Steve is sitting on his bed throwing tiny red Monopoly hotels at his mother who is covering her face and crying, “Throw all you want! You owe me two thousand dollars!”

“Park Place?” Bucky asks as he starts picking up the hotels from the floor.

“Boardwalk,” Steve says bitterly from under his paper party hat. “I have no mother.”

“I think you’re overreacting,” Sarah says from between her fingers.

“It’s my _birthday_ ,” Steve moans.

“You’re just upset because I always win.”

“Guess board games wasn’t such a good day after all,” Bucky says, smirking, and Steve looks at him for the first time, opens his mouth to make some sarcastic comment but spots the wrapped parcel in Bucky’s hands, thin and square, and his eyes light up.

“Is that my present?”

“No.”

“It is.”

“No it’s not.”

“It’s my _birthday_.”

“God, how many times are you gonna whip that one out?” Bucky hands the gift to Steve and sits down in the chair he’s come to call his own of the two, mainly because Sarah has claimed the other one. Steve rips open the wrapping paper and Bucky watches, leaning forwards nervously. An ‘education’? What the hell does that mean? It had sounded better when he’d asked Steve for it. Bucky’s regretting ever asking. It’s a lot harder than he’d thought, picking one or two things that are meant to show the best of a whole genre. If he chooses wrong, Steve could go off records forever. He feels bad that he put Steve through this with the books.

Still, this isn't the real present. Only the one they can exchange in front of Sarah.

Steve turns over the Glenn Miller record in his hands and beams. “I’ve never even heard of this guy!”

“And that’s a good thing?” Sarah asks, raising her eyebrows.

“Yeah.” Steve nods and starts taking the record out of the sleeve immediately. “Mom, can you set up the record player?”

Jazzy music starts playing and Sarah starts dancing and Steve looks embarrassed but doesn’t tell her to stop. When Bucky pulls the taboo cake out of his bag, Steve looks like he might cry.

“James, you know you’re not allowed to bring that in here,” Sarah scolds, wagging her finger and everything.

“Oh really? I had no idea. Sorry, shall I just take it away then?”

“NO!” Steve shouts, turning to his mom to groan, “It’s my _birthday._ ”

“That’s getting annoying.”

“I don’t care. It’s my birthday.” He coughs suddenly and grabs a tissue so Bucky takes over his side of the argument, saying, “It’s his birthday.”

“It could be dangerous.”

“It’s cake! I made it myself.”

“That’s exactly why it could be dangerous.”

“Oh, are we getting personal? That felt personal.”

“I think we have to get personal to avoid you poisoning my son.”

“I’m your son too.”

“There’s no one here, James, you don’t need to say that.”

“What? I’m not your son? My whole life is a lie…”

“Did you really bake that yourself?”

“Yeah. Took me four hours.”

“Four hours?”

“I’m bad at baking.”

“Steve?” Sarah frowns at him. “Are you alright?”

Steve is staring at his hands, the tissue in them.

“Stevie, you gonna back me up on this cake issue or not?”

“Get out.”

Bucky laughs, but Steve looks up at him deadly serious, his eyes red and his lips stained. “Both of you, get out, now.”

“What are you talking about?” Sarah asks, fear creeping into her voice.

Steve holds up the tissue in his hands. Red stains the middle, blooming outwards.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathes. “Did you just cough that up?”

Sarah is already heading for the exit. “I’ll get the doctor,” she says to Steve as she starts pulling Bucky with her. “It’ll be okay, I’ll see you soon, I love you.”

Bucky looks over his shoulder at Steve, nodding and covering his face and nose with the blanket.

As soon as they’re outside the room Bucky turns on Sarah. “What the hell was that?”

“His pneumonia is back. He’s contagious again.” She puts her face in her hands. “Would you get Dr Carter for me?”

“What? How did this happen?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you sure? Couldn’t it be something else?”

“I don’t know! Go and get the damn doctor!”

Bucky nods, doesn’t stay to watch her grief forming and takes off down the corridor despite the fact that he has no idea where to find the doctor. Fortunately, he bumps into her rounding the corner. She goes rushing off as soon as he explains the situation, leaving Bucky alone to… what? What now? How many times will this happen? He let his guard down, allowed him to think Steve was getting better. Is this Sarah’s whole life? Hope and disappointment and fear?

If he knew it would be this hard, would he have become Steve’s friend at all?

Stupid question. It was never a choice.

* * *

 

Sunday is his day off, so naturally he sleeps as late as he possibly can, opening his bleary eyes at half past noon to stare at the underside of the pillow. It’s embarrassing, when he wakes up, to think about how emotional he’d been the night before. It’s always embarrassing, he gets so affected and self-indulgent at night. What had it been last time? He can barely remember. Something about Steve, probably, definitely.

The sunlight streams through his blinds and he closes his eyes to it. Full bladder and bad-tasting mouth compel him to get out of bed but everything else tells him to stay right here, forever. Nothing bad has ever happened to him in this room. But of course that’s not true. This is where Steve’s problems had started, all those months ago, when Bucky had called nine-one-one and almost passed out from how fast he was breathing. He’d never told Steve the truth of that day, how much he’d panicked. It would only make Steve feel guilty.

There’s a knock on his door and his mom pokes her head round the door. “Telephone for you.”

Bucky sits bolt upright, landing himself a head rush. “News?”

“No, it’s your friend Sam on the phone.”

“Oh.” He’s disappointed but also incredibly curious; never in his whole life has he received a phonecall from Sam. The man’s just too damn busy.

He slumps downstairs in his pyjamas and picks up the receiver. “Hello?”

“It’s Sam.”

“Hey.”

“Sorry to call you. Natasha’s busy. She wants to know how Steve is.”

Bucky laughs in spite of everything. “She wants to know? Just her?"

“Scott too.”

“Anyone else?”

“Yeah, the king of England. Just tell me the news so I can get off this damn thing.”

“Uh, so Steve got pneumonia, and then it kinda went away, but then it came back.”

“Damn. Wasn’t it just his birthday?”

“Yeah. Yesterday.”

“Damn. Tell him… tell him Natasha and Scott hope he feels better soon.”

“I can’t. He’s contagious, I can’t go near him ‘til they sort him out again.”

“How long’s that gonna take?”

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose and leans against the wall. “Uh, they can’t say. Days, weeks, months, it’s all possible.”

“Damn doctors. Can’t do shit.”

“Tell me about it. Anyway,” Bucky longs for a change of subject, “how are you? Gettin’ ready for Paris, huh?”

“Yeah. I’m off in a couple weeks.”

“Excited? Nervous?”

“Annoyed. They’re makin’ me take a boat instead of a plane.”

“Safer. Quieter.”

“Longer. Gonna take weeks.”

“You can catch up on some reading.”

Sam snorts. “Goody. You takin’ a plane?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m not goin’. Holdin’ off a year.”

“Makes sense.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You wanna be here for the little guy. He’s your best friend.”

“You guys are my best friends too.”

“It’s cool. I got other friends.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe what you want. I’m gonna be out of the country soon, makes no difference to me.”

Bucky thinks about how he’d been holding off sending the deferral letter to Cambridge just in case, how silly that seems now, how the idea of Steve spontaneously getting better was naïve. “Do you think… do you think I’ll go? Next year? Or do you think I’ll end up stayin’ here forever just for Steve?”

“I dunno. Doesn’t seem like he’s gonna get better anytime soon, does it?”

“No.”

“I’d try not to think about it like that. Doesn’t matter about the future. What do you want right now? To go or to stay?”

“Stay, of course.”

“Then stay and worry about that stuff later.”

Why had he never thought of it that way? “Thanks, Sam, that’s really helpful. God, there might not be much point me staying, though, if I can’t see him. He’s so sick.”

“All this happened when?”

“He got real sick just yesterday. He was fine the day before.”

“One day? How can he change that much in one day? Did something happen?”

“I don’t think so…” What day was that? The day before Steve’s birthday? They’d been…

“Oh fuck.”

“Bucky?”

“Oh shit.”

“Bucky.”

“Oh my god.”

“I can hear your breathing from here, man, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Bucky says, and hangs up the phone, leaning against the wall, feeling like he’ll crash right through it with the weight of it all.

It’s his fault. He took Steve out in the cold, let him say no to a jacket, let him lie on the fucking _wet grass_ , let him go outside when he was so susceptible to disease, not even fully cured yet, just for his _birthday_. And now he’s coughing up blood and it’s all Bucky’s fault.

It’s too much. That’s it. He can’t take another heartbreak, can’t cause another one either. He picks the phone back up and calls Natasha and tells her to bring everything she’s got.

* * *

Natasha receives Bucky’s phone call at one in the afternoon and replies that no, she won’t enable him to start day drinking, that she’s a good and loyal friend and if they start doing what they do in the middle of the day then she is a bad person for letting it happen. Then he tells her that he has essentially accidentally caused Steve to be dying again, and she tells him to pick her up in half an hour.

Into her bag she throws his favourite kind of vodka, the stuff that’s only thirty percent (he doesn’t realise its weakness is why he likes it so much), and some leftover brownies that her cousin had been saving to eat later. Sergei will have to understand. This is a serious situation.

She waits on the driveway outside her house – it’s easier than letting Bucky come to the door or honk the horn, brings less attention to the fact that she’s leaving with someone who her family’s never met. When he pulls up she can see even from metres away that his eyes are red rimmed and bagged.

“You don’t look so hot,” she tells him as she throws her bag in the backseat and slides into shotgun.

“Rude.” Bucky pulls away into the road and starts making his way up through the gears.

She can’t think of anything to say. This is usually where they would begin their easy conversation, the kind that goes with years of friendship and no boundaries, but nothing slides into her head, nothing comes naturally. Does saying nothing make it worse? Or is silence what people need when they feel like this? It’s hard to tell. Bucky’s never been this way before, at least not around her. He looks terrible. It’s only been half an hour since he put it together and already he looks out of control, wildness and desperation and something dead behind his eyes.

He pulls out from a junction without looking both ways and a blaring horn tells Natasha that he almost hit something. Bucky doesn’t even flinch at the noise.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be driving,” Natasha says as softly as she can.

“Maybe not.”

“Do you want me to drive?”

“We’re almost there.”

The car pulls up to the spot by the beach and Bucky yanks up the hand brake before the car has even stopped, lurching the car to a halt and sending Natasha’s bag sliding from the seat to the floor. Bucky reaches back and grabs it from the floor, starts to open it. Natasha puts her hand on his leg and he stops.

“You’re overreacting,” she says. “You couldn’t have known.”

“It was my fault though.” Bucky stares down at her hand where it sits on his thigh. “He’s gonna die, Nat, he is.”

“He’s not.”

“He is. He was coughing up blood. That’s not normal.”

“He has lung problems. It’s probably normal for someone with lung problems.”

“No, you didn’t see his face. he was terrified. It had definitely never happened to him before.” She sees his jaw tighten, the muscles in his cheek contract. Can’t help but notice his dark freckles in the afternoon light. “Don’t say it’s not my fault, cos it is, and don’t say he’s gonna be fine, cos he won’t, just…” He rubs at his eyes. Never before has she noticed how old he looks sometimes. “Maybe I am overreacting, but it’s how I’m reacting, so deal with it or walk home.”

So sad is this boy who cannot – should not – will not be with the one he wants. She is reminded of straight posture by his limp shoulders, of white teeth and fire by his wet depression. Is this why she can speak to Bucky like no other? Because he is the opposite of the things she is in love with?

Is this what she is to Bucky, too? The antithesis to Steve? She never was one for books – not enough patience – and this is all she knows of Steve. They haven’t spent that much time together, really, Natasha and Steve.

“I hardly know him,” she voices, hoping to engage Bucky in some kind of pre-emptive memoriam to fit with his pessimism. “Tell me about him.”

Bucky smiles and says, “He’s a smartass. And he likes jokes, and books, and his mind works in this amazing way.”

“How so?”

“Well, I don’t really understand it myself… It’s like he romanticises everything.”

“Tell me more,” she pushes.

Bucky shrugs, looks at her with a sad smile. “I don’t know. I never really asked.”

“You didn’t need to,” she says, trying to be comforting because she suspects she just made things worse.

Bucky shakes his head, his long American hair swaying. “I did need to. Cos now I know nothin’ about him, not really, and he’s gonna die.”

Natasha has no idea what to say to that, so she just takes Bucky’s hand and uses her other to reach into the bag in his lap and pull out the vodka.

“Good timing,” Bucky tells her, and they drink, moving into the backseat, kicking off their shoes and pressing their feet together under the blanket Bucky still has in his car, Natasha’s leg in between Bucky’s and his between hers as they lean against the windows and face each other. It’s still broad daylight when Natasha sees him relax a little, the muscles all over his body less visible, the wrinkles a lighter shade of shadow on his face.

He tells her a story, Steve’s birthday, when they had snuck out of the hospital and stared at the stars. Natasha asks, “Was it everything you envisioned?” And Bucky asks, “How did you know I was envisioning it?” And Natasha nudges him with her foot and says, “You don’t just up and decide to do something like that. You must have been thinking about that for a long time. So was it?”

“No.”

“No?”

“When I thought about it it went… differently.”

“I bet it did.”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t be gross.”

“I’m not. Well I am a bit. But I can imagine… the things you wanted to happen.”

Bucky leans his head back against the glass of the window with a small thud and sighs. “I should have asked him more.”

“What do you mean?”

“He asked so much about me. And I told him everything I could. Everything I know. And I didn’t ask about him. He made a wish and I didn’t even find out what it was.”

“He couldn’t tell you that. Or it wouldn’t come true.”

“Yeah, I know. But it’s not gonna come true now anyway.”

“Would you stop with the morbidity?”

“I thought you were a nihilist.”

“This is pushing it a bit.”

“Sorry to be negative when my best friend is dying. Alright, alright,” he concedes when she gives an exasperated sigh. “Alright, I’ll try and tone it down.”

“You can never know for certain.”

“Yeah. I spoke to Sam.”

“And?”

“I asked him what he thought I should do about leaving the country or not. Not that I would, right now, but I wanted to know his opinion, and he said I should do what I want to do and worry about if it was a bad decision later.”

Natasha laughs without smiling. “That sounds like him.” One of the reasons she loves him so much. He’s headstrong, determined. But at times like this she wishes that for once he would ask someone for their opinion, consider who it would affect. But that’s just selfish, because the person for both would be her. “So you’re staying?”

“Guess so.”

“You don’t seem happy about that. You know what I mean,” she adds before he can make a sarcastic comment about how he could never be happy in this situation.

Bucky takes a drink, holds it in his mouth and swallows, his eyes rimmed with red. “I want to go,” he tells her, hushed, like it’s been eating him up. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I get letters through and I get excited. I want to leave and learn and… and cash in my reward for all the work I’ve been doin’. I’ve just been workin’ so hard for so long for this. I know it’s terrible, it’s terrible, you shouldn’t think these things about yourself, but I need a break from this kinda life. I wanna be happy.”

“You deserve to be happy.”

“I think so too. But, you know, there are things more important than that. And that sucks!” He passes her the bottle so he can gesticulate more wildly with his hands. “That sucks. That I have this… responsibility. To this guy I’ve known for what, ten months? Almost a year since we met, out of eighteen I’ve been alive, and I can’t do what I want cos if I did I’d feel like shit.”

Natasha starts to reply but Bucky keeps going, shaking his head over and over as he talks, wrapping his leg over hers. “I don’t know him! He knows me, I think he does, but I don’t know him, and I didn’t even realise that until now. What does he think about? How can I care so much about him without even knowing what he thinks about? I mean. I’ve changed so much since I met him and I don’t know why. I keep pinnin’ all my stuff on him, like, I let myself stop thinking about how fucked up I am because I had somethin’ else to think about, and now he might _die._ Where do I go from here? What if he dies tomorrow? What if he dies in a month and I have to wait until next year to go to college? That’s such a fucked up thing to think about but I’m just so… I’m so…”

Natasha passes him the bottle back and he takes a drink and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and seems fully sober as he continues, “I’m so afraid. I don’t know if he’s gonna be alive in a week, I don’t know where I’m gonna be in a week. It’s all just so…” He waves his hand in a circle and stares at Natasha.

“Unsafe,” she suggests.

Bucky nods, leans back, finally stops moving, finally breathes out. “Yeah.”

She wants to ask about him being ‘fucked up’. But she assumes he won’t tell her.

“Being here won’t be so bad,” she says, reaching out to pat his leg. “I’ll be here.”

“Yeah.” He smiles and catches her hand before she pulls it away. Pulls it to his chest, forcing her to lean forwards, an uncomfortable position so she moves to sit in between his legs instead. Heat radiates from his body, all the points where they are connected, up and down her body.

Bucky glances at her and looks down, licks his lips.

“You know,” she says. “My mother died.”

“I know.”

“It was hard. I was young.”

“How young?”

“Eleven.”

“That’s not so young.”

“It is younger than we are now.” The hand that Bucky’s not holding, she presses against his stomach. Tells herself there is skin under this white cotton shirt, under these buttons. It is such a hard thing to believe.

“How did you manage?” Bucky asks her, able to look at her now, eyes wide and sad, attentive, interested. Sober, like her. It doesn’t feel like the middle of the day, the sun shining on his face, dilating his pupils.

“It was hard,” she says again, going back in her mind to the days of endless arguing with her family, the sea of letters from relatives back home asking for the body, blaming Natasha and her family for not taking good enough care. A new friend, seeing her crying in the playground and asking her to hold one end of the jump rope. Sam had always been there. But he’s not here right now.

“You have to find comfort,” she tells Bucky as she squeezes his fingers and slips her hand between the buttons of his shirt. “You have to try to feel safe.”

“Natasha,” Bucky breathes, looking up at her.

“What?”

He swallows and it’s loud. “It won’t solve anything.”

“Comfort does not have to mean anything,” she tells him. “It can just be comfort.”

When she leans down to kiss him, her body in between his legs and against his own, he doesn’t hesitate. She could have kissed him as soon as he showed up at her house and it probably wouldn’t have made a difference. There’s a sense of craving, starvation, in the way he kisses her with such urgency and such little deliberation, sighing in the back of his throat every time she pushes back his hair.

Broad shoulders and clear pale skin and big dark brown freckles, his body has never been seen before like this by another person. When she takes off his clothes he tenses, muscles taut, his naked stomach receding from her touch as she runs her fingers over everything she can reach. He holds his breath, holds it and holds it until she reaches down and takes him in her hand, and then he lets it all out, the warm breath shrouding her, burying his face in her neck and saying something she doesn’t hear that sounds like a name.

His lips are soft and simple, his hands big and strong on her skin, and it’s all new to him, but not to her. She wishes it was new to her, but it’s not. So she tells him in soft whispers how to do it, and he nods with his eyes shut, covering her with his mouth in the cramped backseat that she always suspected they would use for this purpose. She kisses him as much as she can as he moves in her, his breath thick, drying the sweat that has developed on her skin.

Sunlight continues to stream in; this is taking longer than usual. Sounds different, too, Bucky silent, wordless on top of her, out of breath from exertion more than anything else. Maybe she had been wrong, maybe there are no exceptions for him. Maybe it’s something else. She puts her hands on his face and his eyes open and he blinks, stutters and slows and frowns.

She asks him, "Are you okay?"

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and pushes their foreheads together and tells her, "I don’t know what I’m doing."

She pushes him off, away, sitting him down back against the seat, slides into his lap and strokes his hair as she does everything for him. It’s better this way, she can hear it in the virgin whimpers he can’t control, feel it in the fingertips grabbing, unable to find purchase on her body. Whispers that don’t form words, words not directed at her, he is shaking and so is she as he takes her hand. His head back, his neck exposed, his mouth open in a sharp one, loud and surprised and winded and injured, and she realises that it is over.

She kisses him one more time as his eyes open. He looks at her, looks like he’s in shock, mouth forming around words but none emerging. She just pulls the blanket up from the floor and covers them from the exposure of afterwards and puts her feet in his lap to make it seem normal. But she’s not worried about things being weird or different now. After all, neither of them wanted this. Both of them wanted something else. It wasn’t about each other. What they just did had nothing to do with either of them.

Bucky wipes his face and says, “You could go to Paris with him.”

Natasha shakes her head. “Not without telling him. And I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t. If he does not feel the same, I don’t know what I would do.”

Bucky rests his arm on her feet and leans his elbow against the car door, rests his head against the seat, eyes heavy with exhaustion. “I would bet you anything that he does. Anything.”

“Your life?”

He laughs and it’s a welcome sound, officially settles any worries she had. “At this point I’d bet my life on anything.”

She doesn’t push. Just lets him fall asleep next to the ocean in the sunshine. He deserves so much, she thinks. Deserves to use her like that, if only because she’s using him too. That’s what friendship can be sometimes. Mutually beneficial.

Although she doubts she’ll do this again. She doesn’t feel much better. Calmer, warmer, but sadder, lonelier. Both in love with someone else. Only safe for a moment. When he wakes up, back to reality.

* * *

The call comes the next morning that things are looking bad. Seven a.m. and Bucky shirtless and sleep-deprived, taking the telephone from his mother and telling Dr Carter that people don’t die this early in the morning.

“I’m afraid you’re wrong.”

“But it’s so bright.”

“That doesn’t really make much of a difference. You’re going to want to come and see him because there might not be a lot of time left. His condition has deteriorated in the last few days and, well, I don’t want to say anything for certain but…”

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

As he drives to the hospital he decides not to tell Steve about yesterday. Steve would see right through him. Bucky would tell him that he only did it just to see, just to check. Maybe he’d throw in some comment about losing his virginity before he went to college. Steve wouldn’t believe any of it. It’s easy to lie to him usually; he’s unerringly trusting and Bucky’s pretty good at it. But this is the one subject where Steve can always tell.

It’s a time-sensitive issue but he dawdles in the parking lot, cleaning a fleck of something off the steering wheel, checking the directory out front like he hasn’t been here a thousand times. He wishes he weren’t alone, that his and Steve’s friendship had a third person that he could share it all with in the event that Steve isn’t around. He’s alone in this, feels too young to handle it but way too old to make excuses. Is this going to define him for the rest of his life, what happens here? It’s daunting knowing that what you do next, you’ll remember for the rest of your life.

When he gets to Steve’s room no one is waiting outside for him. He tries the door and it’s locked, steps back and notices a big ‘contagious’ sticker slapped on the door. When he peers through the window, Dr Carter catches his eye and says something to Sarah and the other doctors before slipping out.

She takes off her mask and says, “That was fast.”

“How is he?”

“Not good. James, I need you to understand.” She puts her hands on his shoulder and looks right into his eyes. It makes him surprisingly nervous. “You’re young and healthy, so your odds are good, but we don’t understand this illness as well as we’d like to. We’re certain that he’s contagious now, so you have to understand the risks about going in that room.”

Bucky just rolls his eyes. “Ma’am, if he turned into a man-eating mutant I’d still wanna go in that room. If he grew three heads and started quoting the Communist manifesto I’d still go in that room.”

Dr Carter cracks a smile, for once. “Well, alright then. Consider yourself warned.” She opens the door for him and offers him a mask. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head.

Steve is in the bed holding out his arms, tension in his face from the effort this takes, giving up with a great exhale of breath and a wince he doesn’t even try to hide, he’s looking to Bucky on what is currently the worst day of Bucky’s life and saying, “I want to talk to Bucky alone.”

The doctor is saying that they shouldn’t leave him alone, that they can get Sarah to leave but the doctor has to stay, but Sarah is insisting, saying Steve needs complete privacy or nothing at all, because she sees all and knows what Steve needs to let out of him before he lets everything go. She doesn’t cry as she follows the doctor from the room, just stares into Bucky’s eyes, blank-faced, making herself a canvas onto which he can project what she knows he will; watch out for him. Don’t fuck this up. Be kind, do it, do it, do it.

When the white door closes with a loud thud, they are sealed in. Air feels thick in his throat as he breathes through his mouth, feels like he is swallowing it instead of breathing.

“C’mere,” Steve says. His half-smile is so weak. He is on his way out, the energy and thrill of him the first thing to go. It feels like forever since Bucky’s seen him.

Bucky sits on the side of the bed, letting his body touch Steve’s, taking Steve’s hand with his left and cradling his arm in his right. Steve closes his eyes at the touch, so briefly it could pass as a long blink. “Thanks,” Steve says. Bucky doesn’t need to ask what for. It’s for his honesty. Bucky is filled with fear and shame and worry, but he respects Steve enough to put that aside for now.

He holds Steve’s body with his hands, has his bones and blood between his fingers, can’t quite believe that he’s real after all. Steve, who tells jokes and cries in public and asks all the right questions. His best friend. His family. He’d call him his brother, if it wasn’t terribly wrong in the context. Steve, who changed Bucky, who made Bucky ask questions he didn’t know he was capable of asking. Looking at his life, his aesthetically pleasing hollow American poster-boy life, he’d asked, _Would you say that’s who I am?_ What’s Bucky’s answer to that question? Why had he never asked himself that? He’d asked Steve instead. And Steve had said no. So that was the answer.

Steve frowns, shakes his head, at the sight that Bucky has started to cry, but Bucky shakes his head right back, because he is not sad. He is so incredibly, incredibly, wonderfully happy, that of all the people in the world, Steve Rogers had come into his life and tried to make him feel less pain.

“How do we know that Abel grew sugar?” Steve asks.

“What?”

“What?”

“Uh… I dunno. How?”

“Because he was raising Cain.”

“Is that a joke?”

“Yeah. You’re not laughin’.”

“It’s not funny.”

“Yeah it is. You just didn’t get it.”

“Cain and Abel, I got it.”

Steve glares. “Coulda given me a pity laugh or somethin’.”

“I assumed we were trying to be honest right now.”

This shuts him up. The sarcastic piece of shit, the biting and street smart Steve, speechless and staring. Bucky stares back. After a moment he can’t feel his body.

“I don’t think there’s anything to say,” Steve says.

“No, I don’t think so either.”

It’s probably for the best; Steve’s voice has become so tired and strained that Bucky can barely hear him over the sound of their breathing. Hard and fast breathing.

“I wanna ask you, though,” Steve manages. “I wanna ask you to take care of yourself.”

“Eat my greens, Stevie?”

“Don’t die.”

Bucky snorts. “How ‘bout we make a pact?”

“I’m being serious.”

“I can’t help it if I get sick, or drafted, or die of old age, pal.”

“I’m not talking about that.”

He’s been observed. Steve’s eyes cut right through him like kind bullets, bullets nonetheless. He thrills that he’s known. He cowers that he hadn’t realised it until now.

“I won’t,” he tells Steve, and means it.

“You don’t either,” Bucky adds, patting Steve’s hand. “Just keep breathin’, you’re gonna be fine.”

“This ain’t breathin’ no more, Buck. This is my organs. Ya know, this is what killed Mozart.”

“Fuck Mozart. Couldn’t sing for shit.”

Steve laughs and then forces himself to stop. “You’re an idiot.”

“Please don’t die,” Bucky says. “Please.”

“Kiss me,” Steve says.

“Don’t say that.”

“Please.”

“Why? I mean. Stop it.”

“Before I die.”

“You’re not gonna die.”

“Kiss me. I’ll be your first.”

“I’ve kissed girls.”

“You always remember your first.”

“I won’t."

“You won’t remember?”

“I don’t wanna remember. I won’t do it.”

Steve blinks and two lines of thin tears reach his chin. “But I’m dying. I hate to milk it, but I’m dying.”

“I know.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you later.”

“What?” Sheer panic in Steve’s voice as Bucky stands up. Steve’s hand slips out of Bucky’s and it seems to last a thousand years. “What? Where are you going?”

“I’ll see you later.”

“Why?” Steve’s voice cracks as he shouts, as loud as he can before coughing and shouting again, “Why?”

“I can’t lose you like that.” Steve, the shining boy-man, the blonde golden hero, sailing into Bucky’s life on his big Greek ship and declaring an end to the war, flying as close to the sun as he likes with wings made of bone, breathing in space as he combusts in the night sky, sitting inside the Earth and spinning it from day to night, closing his eyes and moving things with his mind, moving Bucky.

It’s all too important. It can’t fit inside his head, he’s just a child. Eighteen is the age of a child. Why can’t he try youth again when he’s older? Why does everything have to come at once? Where is his mother? Where is his dead father? Where is Steve?

“You’re breaking my heart,” Steve tells him, fists balled in the cotton of the blankets and teeth bared, voice calm. “You’re breaking my heart. What happened to ‘til the end of the line, huh? You forget about that? Fuck you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not. You don’t have to kiss me. Just come sit down. But you won’t. Will you?”

Bucky has nothing to say.

“I knew it. You’re not sorry. Why can’t you be honest? You’re afraid. You think I’m not afraid? Suck it up. Please, just…” His tone swaps, dizzying, between angry and helpless. “Don’t leave me like this. You don’t have to say anything else, just don’t go.”

Danger everywhere. The future, the possibilities of what’s to come; the past, when he thinks too hard about what’s happened, when he doubts himself and starts to wonder about all the things that Steve has ever said; the present, gone now, so fast it makes you wonder if we really exist at all.

What to do? Why can’t he kiss the angel?

It would be blasphemous. Impossible. They’re on two different planes.

Fear. He’s afraid. Hindsight, telling him already that he’ll regret it when Steve’s gone. Ignorance is bliss. How can he live in a world without Steve with his lips tasting of the gods?

Can he stay? Hold Steve’s hand? Can he?

Be kind. Do it, do it, do it.

Staring death in the face with his eyes closed, Steve says, “Fuck you. You’re wasting my time.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“I’m not gonna decide for you. Stay or go. Make it snappy, either way.”

“Can I do both?”

Steve’s face twists and his mouth opens for more angry words, but then he sighs and says, “That’s fine.”

Bucky sits on the bed and puts his hands on either side of Steve’s face. He leans down and kisses him on the forehead, so firm that Steve’s skin turns pink. He holds Steve’s hands and asks, “Does it hurt?”

Steve replies, “A little.”

Bucky asks, “What do you say to a dinosaur to ask it to tea?”

“No, it’s to ask it to dinner. You say tea, you give it away.”

“No you don’t. You can’t guess the punchline from that.”

“But it ruins the effect. It’s a pun.”

“Whatever. I’m gonna tell it my way, you can’t stop me.”

Steve chuckles. “I dunno why that one’s your favourite.”

“It’s dumb, so it makes me think of you.”

“You’re a jerk. Take this.” He can’t reach over to pick it up so he gestures at the Glenn Miller record, Bucky’s fake birthday present to him.

“Why?”

“If my mom keeps it it’ll just make her sad. I don’t wanna ruin music for her.”

“Okay.” Bucky picks it up out of the player and holds it gingerly by the edges. “You got the sleeve?”

“I threw it out.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“Why won’t you kiss me?”

“Steve.”

“I just wanna know. I know you want to. Won’t you just tell me?”

“Stevie, I’m in love with you.”

Steve starts. He coughs. He chokes. The doctors come rushing back in and there’s Sarah. Bucky drops Steve’s hand fast and moves to the doorway. Steve’s eyes are closed and Bucky’s already forgotten what kind of blue they are. Maybe this is for the best. Don’t kiss the ones you love. Don’t look into the eyes that you can’t stand losing. Don’t let them touch anything you own or you’ll have to replace all your things, and even then the unfamiliar things will remind you that you had to buy new things because Steve is gone.

He drives home, listens to the Glenn Miller record. When it’s done, he tosses it out the window, vows never to listen to his music again. He lies shirtless on his front in bed, face turned towards the door, and he figures he’ll feel it when it happens, feel the earthquake that happens when the Earth cracks, figures he can’t possibly fall asleep in a time like this when he’s so full of things that his hands won’t stop shaking. But he falls asleep anyway. He falls asleep until his mom shakes him awake and tells him that Steve is alive and has been asking for him for hours.

* * *

“Are you going?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, but when he sits up his hands are shaking.

“I’ll drive you.” His mother pulls him up by his hands and puts his jacket over his shoulders, letting him leave the house in the same clothes as yesterday.

Her driving is better than his. He overuses the clutch and stays in first gear too long, but she sails around corners in second like it’s nothing.

“This is probably the longest time we’ve had together in weeks,” his mother says, delicate hands on the steering wheel, able to glance at him while she drives, something Bucky can’t do. “You don’t really talk to me anymore. I get all my news from Sarah when she calls for you.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” They arrive and his mom backs into a parking spot like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“So what did Sarah say on the phone?”

“Just that he’s okay and he wants to see you, that he won’t shut up about it. Bucky, I want you to know I think you’re very brave.”

“Thanks, mom.”

“I mean it.” She holds his hand. “I’m so proud of you. You’ve done this all on your own. That’s brave. And hopefully it’s all over now.”

Bucky nods, feels guilty that he’s been away so much but even now feels his mind and his concentration wander, his eyes slipping from his mother’s and to the door of the hospital and what lies inside, nothing as interesting or pressing to him as Steve and everything about him.

God, what to say? How to explain what he’d done? What he’d said?

Oh god, what he’d said.

* * *

“There he is,” Sarah says when Bucky slips into the room. “Come have some champagne! We’re celebrating.”

“Champagne?”

“It’s fizzy water,” Steve clarifies, getting back into bed. It’s strange to see him standing. Bucky doesn’t think he’s seen that since the Fourth of July.

“Pass.” Bucky sits in his chair. “How are you feelin’?”

“I’m good. The medication finally kicked in after you left and I was out for a couple hours but I’m good now. They think it’s gone for real now.”

“That’s so awesome.”

Steve nods and smiles, looking Bucky in the eye, not telling him to leave for now at least.

Sarah says something about going to the cafeteria and wheels herself out of the room. As soon as she’s gone Bucky moves his chair up by the side of the bed, takes Steve’s hand and kisses it with his eyes closed.

“I thought that was it,” he says.

“Me too,” Steve says.

“I threw that record out the window.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t think you’d need it back.”

“Rude.”

Bucky laughs, a flat sound that doesn’t help with the awkwardness. Small talk isn’t really possible after you go through what they just went through. But they never talk about what they’re supposed to talk about. How does he say what he needs to say without talking about it?

“I need to take it back,” Bucky says.

“The present?”

“No, not the present.”

Steve leans forwards, crosses his legs beneath him, already so much more capable and human-like than before, colour in his cheeks, life in his eyes. He’s a different person, he’s the same person, he’s looking at Bucky, confused. “I don’t know what you mean.”

It’s hard for him to talk about it. He’d talked about it yesterday and that was wrong. Maybe just one more time, to correct the mistake.

“When I said… what I said before I left. I need to take that back.”

Steve shakes his head. “I knew it.” He sounds disappointed but not surprised.

“What?”

“I knew you’d want to. Why? Were you lying?”

“I need to take it back.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“You’re making this hard.”

“Fine.”

“Steve, for God’s sake.”

“Were you lying? Were you?”

“Let me take it back.”

“Why do you need my permission?”

“Cos…”

Steve takes his hand back. “I don’t think you were lying.”

“I don’t think so either.”

“That’s okay."

It crosses his mind that Steve hasn’t said it back. Incredibly briefly, but it crosses his mind. He wishes it hadn’t, wishes it had never occurred to him. It doesn’t matter, surely, at this point.

“But you can’t take it back.”

“What? Why not?”

“If it’s the truth you can’t take it back.”

“I just want you to forget I ever said it.”

“No.”

“You’re being selfish.” Bucky is surprised to find his voice angry. He tries to suppress the bitter thoughts that have been threatening to surface since his mom told him of Steve’s survival.

“Yeah, I am. I like that you said it. I thought I was going to die and it made it better. I don’t want that moment to be for nothing. I don’t wanna just forget it ever happened.”

He thought he was going to die and now he’s leaning forwards and squeezing Bucky’s hand so hard it hurts. All within the space of a day. How? When will they get a chance to relax? It used to be so easy. They would go to parties and worry about exams and sit on the grass, and not everything was life or death. He once knew Steve as an acquaintance, as a friend, as a best friend, and what is he now? Everything all at once, no definition found.

“But you didn’t die. I thought you were gonna die too. I wouldn’t have said it if I knew…”

“If you knew I was gonna be around to ask you about it?”

“Well, yeah.”

Steve’s jaw sets, his eyes wide and more curious than angry. “Is that why you’re mad? Cos I didn’t die?”

“What?” Bucky sighs. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Okay, well, I want to take back what I said then.”

“What part?”

“What I asked of you. What I wanted you to do that you couldn’t. What I wished for on my birthday. That’s what it was, by the way, if you hadn’t guessed that already.”

“I thought you couldn’t tell me what you wished for.”

“Not like it’s gonna come true anyway.”

“Do you wanna know what _I_ wished for?”

“It was my birthday, you didn’t wish for anything.”

“Yes I did.”

“Well, that night didn’t happen. I’m taking it back.”

“That’s fine. You can do what you want.”

“Are you serious? You’re gonna let me do that?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s wrong with you? Why do you wanna act like nothing’s going on here? Between us?”

Bucky’s mouth goes dry. “Don’t.”

“What?” Steve raises his eyebrows and leans forwards, gets in Bucky’s face like he has a new lease on life or something, like his near death experience has taught him to be a piece of shit. “After all this time you finally tell the truth and now you wanna take it back? I think you’re a coward.”

“I’m not a coward.”

“I think you are.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You don’t wanna think about what happens next. You don’t wanna suffer anymore. Right?”

“I don’t know. I just can’t do this.”

“Okay. Take it back. Fine. You didn’t kiss me anyway, so you can just pretend like it never happened. You can just keep living your life in fear and acting like you’re happy.”

“Fuck you, don’t bring that up now.”

“I just want you to be honest with yourself for one second, Buck, I want you to be happy for real.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“It used to be.”

“So, what do you wanna do instead of takin’ it back? Where do you wanna go from here? What would you have me do, huh?” Bucky spreads his hands in invitation, head pounding with adrenaline, from which emotion he can’t tell. “C’mon, Stevie, I’m open to suggestions!”

Steve just shakes his head and presses his lips together, smiles a little and shrugs. “God, I dunno. I just don’t wanna forget it. I don’t want you to leave like this, with everythin’ wrong between us. It’s like on my birthday, when I said you gotta tell me everythin’ before you leave cos it’s not like you’re gonna put it in a letter. It’s like that. I just want it to have happened once. We don’t have to talk about it again, but I just wanna keep that one time. To remember you by,” he jokes, watching Bucky’s face carefully.

Bucky searches his brain for the date that he’s supposedly leaving for university. Start of August sometime. Seeing as it’s mid-July now, it makes sense that Steve would feel so desperate to get everything out of Bucky that he can. But Bucky just wants everything to go back to normal.

In a universe where Steve died yesterday, Bucky is mourning and lying in bed for days and skipping work some more, thinking about how he is so glad that he got to tell Steve that before he died, so that at least he knew, and though it had killed him to actually say it aloud, made him feel foolish and futile and naïve, at least he’d said it once. It had been true, of course, and now he can move on.

This is what Bucky thought would happen. That was the plan. He never thought he would be left to the consequences, sitting in the afterwards, facing the music even after he’d thrown the record out. He’d felt safe saying what he said. The doctors had promised him it would be okay to say what he said. They’d all been wrong and he’s the one who has to deal with it. He’s vulnerable, exposed, too known, but not known at all.

He sighs at Steve’s soft eyes, slightly apologetic and curious as always. He lets Steve drag his fingers up and down Bucky’s forearm, a gesture that couldn’t be played off as brotherly love if they tried.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Bucky says, more forceful than he’d meant it like he’s trying to prove something, watching the motion of Steve’s hand, not so pale anymore and not so cold.

“Me too. That was a close one, huh?”

“Yeah. You really had me goin’.”

“I could tell. I just wanna ask,” Steve says without changing his movements.

“Yeah?”

“Why wouldn’t you kiss me?”

“I thought we weren’t gonna talk about it.”

“I have to know that much.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“Bucky. Come on. You can’t just ignore a question you don’t wanna answer.”

“I thought you were gonna die. That couldn’t have been the last thing. I dunno, it’s a whole bunch of different things. It just didn’t feel right.”

“That’s weird.”

“I just couldn’t. I wanted to but I couldn’t.”

“I don’t accept that.”

Anger boils in Bucky again. He really does have a hair trigger when it comes to Steve. “What’s that mean?”

“Tell me why.”

Bucky shakes his head and gets up to leave. “I don’t need this. You’re not dyin’ anymore, I don’t gotta be here.”

If Steve’s hurt, he covers it well. “I’m just tired, Bucky, I’m tired of not knowing where we stand and what’s going on in your head. I feel like I don’t know you at all anymore.”

“That’s stupid. I’m the same.”

“You’re not. You’ve changed. You never come visit and you’re so negative all the time. Has it gotten worse?”

“No! No. It’s not that. It’s not _anythin’_ , I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Why did you even tell me that you love me? To make me feel better? Why would you do that and not kiss me?”

The candidness makes Bucky even madder and for some goddamn reason he starts yelling in the middle of a fucking hospital. “Would you stop askin’ about it! It’s all in the past! What’s it matter anyway, if I’m leavin’ soon? What’s any of it matter? Will it make a difference? What do you think’s gonna happen, we’re gonna hold hands and walk into the sunset?”

“Keep your voice down, god. No, I don’t think that, you know I don’t think that.”

“I’ll tell you somethin’,” Bucky says, voice steady and thick, pointing at Steve from where he stands at the foot of the bed, at once having an out of body experience and feeling like he’s so far inside his own head that he’s trapped forever. “Telling you what I told you was okay cos it was for you. But the other thing? I can’t just do that for you. That affects both of us. You can’t just order me to do somethin’ and expect me to do it.”

“I didn’t order you. I asked you.”

“So it should be okay that I said no. You gave me a choice and I chose, can’t you live with that?”

Steve tears up and Bucky has to stare at the floor. He hears Steve swallow, so thick he can hear it from metres away, and he shuffles in the bed, pulls the bedsheets up to his chin like a child. Bucky is filled with something that later he will think was probably regret, but at the moment he names as anger.

“You wish I died, don’t you?”

“No.”

“You kind of do, though.”

Bucky pauses for a long, long time. “It would have been easier.”

In his peripheral Bucky sees Steve shaking his head, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, dragging it so hard across his face that his skin turns red. He can see the pile of books on the table beside the bed, and without reading the spines he could name them all. There’s _Lord of the Rings,_ there’s _The Waves,_ and _To the Lighthouse,_ gifts from Steve’s mother to try and persuade him. And under them all there’s _Early Tudor Poetry_ , with the poem Steve knows off by heart, had dumbed down so Bucky would listen to it, the night before Steve had gone to hospital for the first time and Bucky had lost his mind, the night Steve had slept in Bucky’s bed and Bucky had not allowed himself to think like he does now, told himself that life and school and careers and family and friends were important because it’s not normal just to think about one person all day and night. Has Steve ruined his life? He’s blessed it and sanctified it but has he ruined it, too? Have these bloody days broken his heart, too?

The fall is grievous from aloft. Bucky meets Steve’s eyes for a moment and knows it’s time for him to go.

* * *

The hardest thing to clean off a dish is borscht, she has found. When it dries, it sticks, red soup turning to a flaky brown pain in her ass. Why her family is eating so much soup in the middle of summer, she has no idea.

She does the dishes anyway though, boiling the kettle on the stove and scrubbing the bowls in hot water, trying not to grumble too much because she needs the car. Without Bucky to drive her around or the buses running to take her to school, getting out on her own without any family members chaperoning her is tricky. But this is what it takes. After this she has to do the toilet.

When finally the keys are handed to her, she heads to Sam’s house first. He doesn’t wait outside his house, instead always forces her to come and knock on the door so that she’ll be subjected to his mother, the single nicest woman in the entire world and therefore someone Natasha would love to avoid. Sam shouts down, “I’ll just be a minute!” while most likely just standing in his bedroom, seeing how long Natasha will put up with his mom’s “beautiful girl like you, you don’t have a boyfriend?” talk before exploding. So far the max is three minutes forty seconds, he tells her as they drive off towards Scott’s house, and she laughs and says, “Was that the time she got a phonecall halfway through?”

“Yeah, that made up about two minutes of the time.”

She hasn’t driven in a while and stalls at a traffic light, swearing as she turns the key and stalls again, slams her hands on the steering wheel and says a word that doesn’t have an equal in the English vocabulary.

“You’re still in gear,” Sam hints, voice cautious.

Natasha looks down to the gear stick, still in first from the pull up. She says nothing in way of thanks as she steps on the clutch and starts the car again, drives off under the light that has long since turned green.

“You’re welcome,” Sam says, and he’s smiling when she looks at him.

Scott stands outside his house holding the largest teddy bear in the continental U.S. and waving wildly. Natasha pulls up in the driveway in front of him and rolls down her window. “Who in the hell is that?”

“This is Mr Bear,” Scott replies, and rolls his eyes like it’s obvious.

“What an original name.”

“Well, his real name is Hershel Bearstein, but he’s trying to lay low due to the current political climate.” He peers at Sam in the passenger seat. “But I called shotgun.”

“No you didn’t,” Natasha tells him.

“I did! You called me and said, we’re going to visit Steve, and I said, how are we going to get there without Bucky, and you said, I’ll have to try and get my uncle’s car, and I said, shotgun.”

“You have to be in sight of the car,” Sam says, leaning across Natasha to glare at Sam out the window. His hand is on her leg for support, which is honestly just ridiculous.

“That’s not a thing.”

“Yeah it is.”

“Well I’m in sight of it now and I call shotgun.”

“You’re welcome to try and get me out, but I don’t know how well that’s gonna go for you.”

Scott gets in the backseat and buckles himself (and Mr Bear) in, grumbles about how he’s the backbone of this family, the breadwinner, the patriarch so really he should be the one driving, and Natasha reaches back to slap him, and Sam steadies the wheel and reminds her that you have to look at the _road_ when you drive.

They get to the hospital and a very helpful nurse tells them where Steve is, and as they climb the stairs Nat reminds Scott to be respectful, and reminds Sam not to call Steve ‘little guy’, and instructs them both to let her do the talking. “Especially you,” she says, stopping Scott and poking him in the chest. “You make one crude joke about Bucky, I will end you.”

“I’m _hurt,_ ” Scott says with his hand on his heart. “Hurt! But okay.” He then bursts in the door to Steve’s room, holding Mr Bear’s hand and yelling, “Surprise! Congrats on not dying!”

“Thanks,” Steve laughs, grinning and putting down his book. “I think. What are you guys doing here?”

“We are getting Scott looked at,” Nat says. “Clearly he needs some form of treatment.”

Scott throws the bear at Steve and Steve catches it. “Look at that catch!” Scott cries. “He’s back!”

“Who’s this guy?” Steve asks, turning the bear around and looking it in the eye.

“Mr Bear. He’s your new special funtime friend. You should be rewarded for managing to stay alive. I mean, I do it everyday, and I don’t get a prize, but I understand that I’m better at things than most people. I know it’s hard for you.” He pats Steve on the arm and gives him a condescending smile.

“Thanks,” Steve says again, looking to Natasha with eyebrows raised.

“It’s good to see you looking so healthy,” she says, sitting down on one of the chairs and leaning in to rest her elbows on the bed.

Sam snorts from the doorway. “I don’t know if I’d say he looks healthy.”

“Healthy for Steve.” Nat puts her hand on his shoulder protectively and glares at Sam. “He looks good. I’m proud.”

“I didn’t really do a whole lot to be proud of,” Steve tells her. “I kinda just lay here.”

“You do not come back from the brink of death without fighting. You did it all.”

This makes Steve smile. He leans forwards so Nat’s arm slips round his shoulders and gives her a one-armed hug. “It’s good to see you too. How long has it been?”

“Months!” Nat moans, pouting. “Months. You became contagious so fast. You missed our graduations.”

“Oh yeah, how did that go?”

“Boring,” Sam says, still leaning in the doorframe while Scott sits in the remaining chair and puts his feet up. “We didn’t even get to throw our hats.”

“They said it was too wasteful,” Natasha explains, flopping Steve’s hand back and forth in her own. “That they get all stained when they land on the grass. Someone said we should do it inside but the ceiling of the auditorium was not high enough to do it, so we wore them instead.”

“Wearing a hat?” Steve shakes his head. “What is the world coming to.”

“That’s exactly what Bucky said,” Scott chuckles to himself, picking up one of Steve’s books and flipping through it. He remains unaware for a few moments that Natasha is staring at him and imagining all the different ways she would like to kill him in this moment. His eyes widen when he sees her and he mouths, _sorry_.

“Oh yeah. Is Bucky coming?” Steve asks, looking to Natasha for the answer.

She takes a deep breath. “Bucky’s gone.”

“What?”

“He left for England yesterday.”

Steve frowns. “No, but his term doesn’t start until August.”

“He went early. He sent in the accommodation cheque late and there were some issues he had to get sorted out.”

“But I saw him three days ago. He would have said something.”

Natasha has no answer for this one, can only watch as Steve comes to term with the fact that his best friend has left the country for months without saying goodbye. She remembers Bucky’s words from a few days before, how he’d sat in his car and looked like he was about to cry and said, “I have to get out of here.”

“Where will you go?” she’d asked.

“To England. I never actually told them I was deferring. They’re expectin’ me in a couple weeks anyway, I got a room and everythin’.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. What do you think?”

“I think you are in charge of your own life and it’s your decision to make.”

“But what do you think.”

“I think I will miss you.”

He’d smiled at this, and taken a second to think, and leaned in to kiss her. She’d let him for a while before telling him that she’d rather not go down that road again, no offence. He asked her if she regretted what they did before and she’d said no and he’d said, me neither.

She asked him, “Are you okay?” because there was something in the way he kissed her that was different and sadder. Like he was concentrating, trying.

He’d taken a long time to answer, closed his eyes and held his breath before he let it all out at once in a sigh and changed the subject.

“He probably didn’t say anything cos it was so short notice,” Scott adds, trying to look supportive and kind which does strange things to the way his face looks. “You know, probably didn’t have time.”

“Short notice? He’s known he was going to Cambridge for months. We were talking about it when I last saw him.” Steve frowns and turns to Natasha, staring her down with his desperate, confused eyes, clearly aware that there’s something going on. “What’s going on?”

When Natasha had asked what she should tell Steve, Bucky had shrugged and said, “Whatever. He thinks I’m leaving in a few weeks anyway, just tell him I left early. No need to tell him about anything else.” But she can’t do this now that Steve is so close to putting it all together. Better he hear it from her than realise it alone.

Natasha looks down in the shame that comes with admitting you’ve been keeping a secret. “Bucky was going to defer a year. Wait until next year to go to college. He was going to stay.”

She wishes there weren’t so many people in the room all of a sudden. When Steve puts his face in his hands she turns to Sam and Scott and shoos them off. Sam mutters something about getting some coffee and drags Scott out with him, turning to give Nat a smile that tells her she can handle this.

Steve is shaking his head beneath his hands, uncovers his mouth to say, “When did he decide?”

“Just after you got sick.”

“When did he decide to go after all?”

“A couple days ago.”

“I ruined everything.” His eyes are wet when he looks at her and he reaches out for her hand. “I pushed him too far. I thought… that I knew him. I thought he was ready.”

Natasha holds Steve’s hand and resists the urge to stroke his hair, to baby him, after all he’s been through and how much it must have all hurt. Guilt briefly strikes her that she’s felt the touch of the person this boy wants.

She pulls a crumpled piece of paper from her bag and hands it to Steve. “His address,” she says.

“Did he tell you to give this to me?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t want it.” He holds it out and she hesitates to take it. “I don’t want it,” he says again, and puts it in her hand.

“Okay.”

“Did he really…” Steve swallows and looks at the ceiling briefly before continuing. “Did he just leave? Just like that?”

“It seems so.”

“Did you see him before he left? Did he say goodbye to you?”

“He came to tell me what was going on so I could pass the message on to whoever.”

“So yes?”

“Yes.”

“What did he tell you?”

He had told her everything because she was the only person left to which he could. He’d told her that he wishes he never met Steve because now he knows how life could be and how much better he should be, and he’s sad and lonelier than ever and knows he’ll never be able to commit to anything again or care about anyone new because he knows now that it’s all danger, danger everywhere, that no one comes out of love alive and whole.

“He told me he loves you.”

Steve nods, smiling sadly and gripping her hand. She can’t help but wipe a tear from his chin.

“Will he write to me, do you think?” Steve asks her.

Damn Bucky for landing the burden on her to tell all the horrible things to this wonderful boy. “He seemed pretty set on starting fresh. Steve, I am so sorry about this, to be the one to tell you. You don’t deserve this, to be left in this way. I am Bucky’s friend and I love him, but I do not agree with him on this. This is wrong.”

“Thank you. So, that’s it then, I suppose,” he says, and she is surprised to see that he’s stopped crying.

“Huh?”

“It’s over. If he wants it to be over so bad he moves three thousand miles away, then it’s over.” Steve gets out of bed and walks over to the window. He undoes the latch and struggles to lift it – Nat gets up to try and help but he waves her off and keeps pushing until the window slides open with a horrible noise that tells her it hasn’t been opened in years.

Steve sticks his head out the window and she goes to stand beside him, puts her hand on his shoulder because she’s worried he’ll fall right out.

“Did you love him back?” she asks

Steve laughs at this and looks out over the city with his eyes a little less wide than before, shaking from the warm outside air. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t think it makes a difference.”

* * *

Bucky sits on a plane and drinks until he passes out. For the first week he tells everyone that he looks this way because of jetlag. After it doesn’t go away, the red eyes and the dark circles and the sleepless nights where his flatmates can hear him turning over and over in bed, they stop asking, because jetlag doesn’t last that long.

He tries to decide which person to be. What actions to take. Whether to heal or forget or mourn. He says yes when he’s invited to a party. He says yes to drink after drink after drink. When he is kissed he doesn’t stop her. When she asks him what it’s like in America he says it’s quieter than the media makes it out to be.

When she asks him to walk her home he goes. When she asks him something else outside her door, he doesn’t bother saying yes. He just walks right in and closes the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 14 April 2017 - this is not abandoned! Not by any means. I'm just super busy and the chapters are super long, got a lotttt of plot to cover. Will definitely write more over the summer. Thanks for reading :)
> 
> 4 August 2017 - i swear to god i am still writing this. many apologies and hugs


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Yes, it's been over a year. No, I'm not dead, or a sadist. Basically, I study creative writing and when I wrote the first couple parts it was over the summer / first year. Now I'm about to graduate in the summer so everything's been really hectic, I've had to use all my creative writing time for actual assignments... Plus, I got into a relationship, so while this means I have less time to write, hopefully the feelings of love etc. are more informed! :D
> 
> Without further ado, I present to you... part 3.
> 
> P.S. Part 4 will not take that long. Promise.

The English city is different to the American city. Smaller, dirtier, wetter, older, louder, more confusing (“what’s a block?”). Bucky spends his days reading textbooks and drinking beer, making friends, laughing with his head back and mouth open so wide he could catch flies, running so fast in the early mornings that he thinks he can catch the sun before it rises, hitting baseballs so hard with such a loud crack that he feels like a god of thunder, going to parties, dancing to jazz, kissing girls, touching girls, sleeping with girls, pretending he is asleep when girls sneak out of bed in the mornings, pretending he knows nothing about this war that the British fear is coming, pretending his main concern is exams and how much reading he has to do and how he has to ace this final to get a 1st for the year, sleeping with more girls and drinking more beer and smoking constantly. It’s the Great Depression but he’s late to the hedonist game. He’s young, he’s angry, he’s alive and he’s not, he’s three thousand miles from his problems and after five months nothing can bother you as much.

It’s December 1937 and the Chinese Nationalist and Communist parties have united in the fight against Japan. Hitler has announced his plans for European expansion, forming the Hossbach Memorandum. Upon meeting with Hitler in Berchtesgaden, Germany, Lord Halifax assures the British government that Hitler does not seem to be pursuing war. 

It’s snowing a little as Bucky leaves the lecture hall and gets on his bike. Everyone cycles in this city, and it’s not like he could bring his car with him anyway. He travels down the narrow lanes, remembers his first day when he’d felt claustrophobic around so many tall buildings pressing in on all sides, so many cathedrals and colleges so much older than anything America had to offer. His satchel – a parting gift from his mother – is heavy with books on his back after his earlier trip to the library in preparation for an upcoming essay.

After ten minutes or so he reaches his flat, the accommodation for the university spread out through the city. He locks his bike up outside and lets himself in, says hi to a few people in the hallways and checks his pigeon hole for any mail. He just has time to glimpse that there’s something in there when there’s a tap on his shoulder and someone standing behind him with a big smile and curly red hair.

“Hey Dolores.” 

“I _told_ you,” she moans, smacking him on the arm with a rolled up magazine, “stop callin’ me that!” He laughs and snatches the magazine out of her hand and holds it up out of her reach. She jumps for it and says, “Quit it!”

“What?”

“Give it back!”

“Give what back?”

“Bucky!” she yells, putting her hands on her hips and pouting with her eyes remaining playful. “You better give that to me right now or I’ll never talk to you again.”

Bucky narrows his eyes and smirks, looks at her with incredulity. “I don’t believe you.” 

“I won’t!”

He gives back the magazine regardless of how empty her threat is. She says something thinly-veiled before bouncing off to the girls’ accommodation with promises to see him later, leaving him staring after her for the appropriate amount of time before shoving his arm in the pigeon hole and snatching his letter.

His eyes search the front of the envelope for the sign – and there it is. A postal mark from Brooklyn. Careful, separate lettering that includes his middle name. No return address.

People swarm around him, socialising, so he takes the steps two at a time up to his room, up the narrow staircase and into his tiny box of a room with little to show for itself but a bed and a desk. The walls are as bare as they were when he moved in but the desk is covered with papers and books, random pens strewn everywhere and a lamp still on from the night before. Bucky switches it off before flopping back onto his bed, shoes still on, and ripping open the letter in privacy.

 

> _Dear Bucky_
> 
> _Good to hear that you are doing well. I myself have caught a cold and it is terrible. I think that colds should be illegal. I do not recognise half of the people you referenced in your last letter but they sound nice enough. To answer your question, Steve got the job. He is now working in the bakery on the road by the school, you know the one. A lot of the time he smells like flour and bread, I think you would like it. It is on my way to work so I stop by a few times a week and he gives me day old pastries. It is a very good friendship. I think you will be pleased to hear that we are not lonely or sad. We are not living the lives of those that were left behind but of those who chose to stay._
> 
> _Now for the part you might not want to read around other people. Are you alone?_

He is. He’s made sure of it.

 

> _I told Sally you will be back on the 15 th. She nodded, said something about the weather, and excused herself from the table. When she returned, ten minutes later, her smile was too large. I do not want to bring it up again. I think it just makes her sad. You have been apart for so long now, and she is happy finally. She is still healthy. No relapse. Doctor’s appointment last week all clear. Do not hurt her unless you will be there to fix it this time._
> 
> _Regardless, if you have any questions about her I will answer them._
> 
> _I miss you,_
> 
> _Natasha_

Bucky puts the letter down on his chest and stares at the ceiling. Then he picks it back up and reads the second paragraph over again.

Sally is less dangerous than Steve. With the world in the state of tension it’s in, who knows what happens to their letters, who’s reading them, looking for encoded messages. Better not to risk it.

So Steve is working in a bakery, Steve is smelling like fresh bread and baking, smiles at customers, he’s happy, he’s healthy. He’s _healthy._ That’s a word Bucky never thought he’d hear to describe Steve. He writes his response, asking what exactly Nat means by healthy, whether he’s still suffering or whether he’s actually fine. He knows the answer will be that Steve is still sick, still plagued by more diseases than Bucky has fingers, but that it’s dialled back enough for Steve to handle it like he always has.

He finishes off the letter by asking Natasha how she’s doing, whether she’s spoken to Sam recently, and tells her that he misses her too, so much. Because he does.

Except, here, he is an individual. Every situation means he has to think fast for a response, come up with something tailored to whoever he’s talking to and that’s funny and smart and modest and kind at the same time, that puts out the exact kind of character he wants to put out, walking the line between witty and mean. He’s adapted, he’s changed, he’s grown. He’s different. He’s a brand here, he’s known for his charm and his looks and his accent that makes all the girls melt. So in a way, he doesn’t miss Natasha, because here, he’s not the Bucky that knew her.

Does this make him sad? A little. Maybe. It’s hard to tell.

His flatmate bursts into his room and drags him out to the pub and he forgets to think about it anymore.

* * *

 

>   _Dear Natasha,_
> 
> _Great news about Steve. Glad he's finally employed. How is his mother?_
> 
> _I am sorry to hear that you are suffering with a cold. It is a testament to you that this is your first one. The virus must have been very brave to dare take you on._
> 
> _I will be leaving for home a week from today and I am growing more and more anxious about my return. Sally, I hope, will see me. I know I’ve wronged her and I would like to be friends, nothing more. Don’t tell her any of this from me. Just ask her if she would like to see me. I know you said it upsets her to hear of me but please, I could make that go away if I am given the chance to apologise. Also glad to hear of her health. Wondering what definition of ‘healthy’ you are using?_
> 
> _How are you? I don’t think I’ve asked in a month. Have you spoken to Sam recently? I miss you._
> 
> _Bucky_

When Steve walks into the room she stuffs the letter under the sofa.

He peers at her. “What are you up to?”

“Christmas present,” she replies. “None of your business.”

Steve rolls his eyes and sits next to her on the sofa, feet up on the table because his mom’s not home yet. Between the wheelchair and the ground floor apartment, she really is autonomous these days, which works to Natasha’s advantage when she and Steve need somewhere to shelter from the cold without Sarah’s ever-listening ear.

He hands her a sandwich made with the soft white bread of the bakery and the poor meat of their poverty, and they eat in silence. Since Bucky’s departure, and Sam’s, the two of them had decided together to keep their pride and continue to live like they weren’t affected, being each other’s best friend after the slots opened up. Natasha likes Steve. She really does. He’s patient and quiet and observant, and funny too, sometimes. He listens. She feels guilty that she has never been completely honest with him. But you can never be honest with someone as innocent as Steve. It would ruin it.

Steve starts talking about one of his co-workers or something, and Natasha zones out a little, starts thinking about Bucky’s letter. As close as she’s grown to Steve, old loyalties burn inside her. It would make Bucky so happy to receive a response to his question.

“Anyway, she’s leaving on the 15th,” Steve continues. “I’ll be glad to see her go. I know that’s a mean thing to say, but it’s true.”

“We should go and celebrate that night,” Natasha says, then feigns realisation. “Oh, I can’t. That’s the day…”

“What?" 

“That’s the day Bucky comes back. I expect I’ll be going to see him.”

Steve tenses, looks down at his hands. Looks like he wants to run away. “We don’t have to celebrate.”

“Are you coming with me? To see Bucky.”

He looks at her with blatant surprise, probably not expecting such obtuseness on her part. Guilt hits her briefly but she powers through. “I don’t know,” Steve says, and clears his throat. “I don’t know.”

She doesn’t say anything. They haven’t talked about Bucky in months. She feels less guilty as she realises that this is her role as Steve’s best friend, to get him to talk about issues that bother him. Better now than when Bucky’s back. Steve has to be prepared.

“Do you think I should?” he asks her, looking to her helplessly, wide eyed and childlike.

“I think you should hear him out." 

“Has he said anything about me in his letters?”

“No.”

Steve looks hurt at this. It’s hard to watch. Natasha sighs and caves. “Alright, yes. He wants to see you. Don’t you dare tell him that I told you.”

“Why does he want to see me?” Steve presses.

“I believe he wants to apologise.”

“For what?" 

“I don’t know.”

Steve shakes his head and leans back. “There’s so many things he could apologise for.”

“Do you want to hear it?" 

Steve deliberates, lips pressed together, before picking up their plates and carrying them to the sink. He washes them slowly, staring at the wall, before crossing his arms and leaning against the counter, looking so normal, if a little pale. “I want to want to hear it.”

“Did you stutter?”

“No! I want to want it. I know that’s how I should be feeling. But it was so long ago. I don’t really care anymore. I know it’s going to hurt me to see him and I don’t care enough about a reconciliation to do that to myself.”

Natasha does not believe this for one moment. “If you don’t care about Bucky, would you do it for me?”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “You want me to go?”

“He’s moved on too. I think he just wants to make amends so you can both put it behind you.” She doesn’t believe this either. Natasha considers for a moment what her motives truly are. But then, this makes her uncomfortable, so she stops.

“Okay. For you.” Steve smiles and puts the kettle on.

* * *

 

>   _Dear Bucky_
> 
> _My cold has gone after two days, which Steve tells me is a shorter length of time than the average cold. It turns out I am superior, after all. His mother is well._
> 
> _Sally is healthy for Sally. Pale and skinny but functional. She has agreed to see you when you come into town. I think she would also like to be friends, nothing more, which I assume you will be pleased to hear._
> 
> _I am generally well. I do not speak to Sam anymore. He sends me letters but I do not reply. I hope they don’t stop coming._
> 
> _Hoping you are well,_
> 
> _Natasha_

“Hey Bucky,” Dolores says, snapping her fingers in front of his face in the café. “Hello? Anyone in there?”

“Stop messin’ around,” Bucky says, grabbing her hand between two of his own and pressing it to his lips. Her mock annoyance turns to a blush and she giggles.

“You’re such a charmer. You Americans are always so _charming_.”

“Must be somethin’ in the water.”

Dolores orders them one milkshake with two straws and Bucky winces internally.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me in two days,” she moans, grabbing his hand and squeezing it, looking at him from under her lashes with her big blue eyes.

“You gonna miss me, doll?” She loves it when he calls her that, saw it in the movies once and wouldn’t go home with him until he said it.

“Maybe,” she flirts, grinning. “You gonna miss _me_?” 

“Maybe,” he replies, and she laughs.

They drink the milkshake and go back to Bucky’s flat. Then it’s the routine, the thing they always do that Dolores hasn’t picked up on as the same. They go through the kitchen so he can show his flatmates that he has a girlfriend. They go into Bucky’s room and he pretends to do work while she sits there looking pretty and tries to seduce him. He gives in and they have sex on the twin bed, fast and a little rough and not completely joyless. She loves it. She can’t get enough of it. She comes round to his room almost every day, always leaving a scarf or something in there, and would be rude if he didn’t invite her in to look for it.

He does like her. She’s cute and sweet and good, the qualities that most eighteen-year-olds look for in a partner. It’s not her fault that he’s fucked up, that he can’t kiss her for too long, that he finds excuses not to hold her hand. It’s not fair on her at all and he knows it but he couldn’t stand being alone.

Before Dolores it was Betty. Before Betty it was Sandie. Before Sandie it was Margaret. Eventually they all get fed up, his accent becoming a gimmick instead of sexy and his emotional unavailability becoming frustrating instead of mysterious. Dolores is different, though. Fun loving, free wheeling. Game for a laugh. Not looking for commitment. Bucky isn’t looking for commitment, either. That had been his problem with Steve, he thinks now, that Steve was looking for someone to hold hands with as he died and Bucky was just a kid from Brooklyn on the baseball team. Relationships aren’t supposed to mean anything when you’re this young. They aren’t supposed to last.

Steve wants to be friends. This is good. Then Bucky can stop thinking about it. Then he can stand being single, or try it with Dolores, or something else a regular person would do.

* * *

 

> _Dear Natasha_
> 
> _Glad to hear your cold is gone. Colds are terrible. A team here at Cambridge is working on a cure, I will keep you posted and mail you any samples I get my hands on._
> 
> _When can I see Sally? I would like to see her as soon as I arrive, to get it out of the way. Please let me know when she is available, I am free any time as I will not be working over Christmas._
> 
> _Why aren’t you replying to Sam?_
> 
> _Love you_
> 
> _Bucky_

* * *

 

> _Dear Bucky_
> 
> _Samples would be great. Sally works Monday to Friday but she gets off at five. Any time after this would be fine, I believe. Please, I beg of you, let her move on. She is so close to being happy._
> 
> _In other news, my cold has spread to my family. Cousin Sergei sneezed in my cereal._
> 
> _Love you_
> 
> _Natasha_

* * *

 

> _Dear Natasha_
> 
> _I want nothing more from Sally than to apologise. Don’t worry about her. She doesn’t need it, trust me._
> 
> _Cousin Sergei is easily the worst of your cousins, so this is not particularly bad news._
> 
> _You never answered my question about Sam. What is the point of sending letters three thousand miles to me if you aren’t going to answer my questions? Don’t bother. I’ll be home shortly after you receive this one._
> 
> _See you soon_
> 
> _Bucky_

* * *

The plane ride home is ear-blisteringly loud and so bumpy he gets bruises. The only person there under forty, the other passengers are clearly upper class and shoot him haughty looks. He crumbles a little under the social pressure, longs to shout to them that he’s got a scholarship and he deserves to be here too. Instead he just closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep.

His mind races as he stares at his eyelids. Such a long, long time since he’s been home. It’s a Monday; he’ll arrive at three p.m. local time. That gives him time to get home and greet his family before he can head over to Steve’s.

There are so many people he’s going to see when he arrives. His mother, his sister, Natasha, Scott, his school friends, the lady at the newsagents who always asks him if he wants a lollipop. But all he can think about is what he’s going to say to Steve.

It’s a plague to need forgiveness. He knows now that what he did was wrong, abandoning Steve without saying goodbye. That’s what he’s going to apologise for. And if that’s not enough for Steve, well, at least he tried.

When he gets to the airport his mom and sister are waiting for him on the tarmac, his mom waving frantically as soon as she spots the plane in the sky and his sister trying to look more bored than she is. He hugs them both at once and they drive the short distance back to the house. His mom starts making dinner and Bucky asks if he can excuse himself for an hour or so to run an errand.

“Where ya goin’?” Rebecca asks, elbows on the dinner table, her hair longer and straighter. She must have grown out of her flapper phase while he was gone.

“None of your business.” 

“Rebecca, don’t be nosey,” his mother chides as she chops onions. “Bucky’s independent now, he lives in another continent. He’s got a whole life outside of us.” She sniffs loudly. “He’s all grown up.”

“Mom, are you crying?” Bucky asks.

His mother holds up an onion. “Make sure you’re back by six.”

Bucky heads out the door and spots his car on the side of the road. He grins as he slides into the driver’s seat, spreads his hands out on the leather steering wheel. This is probably what he’s missed the most.

He wanted to see Steve as soon as he was back. It’s not that he wants to get it over with… but it kind of is. He’s so nervous, his hands slip down the wheel with sweat and he pulls over for a minute to wipe them on his pants and calm down. He opens both windows before he drives off to let the cool winter air onto his face, and if he takes a slightly longer route than before, hey, he’s just rusty.

Outside Steve’s building, he parks and stares at the door. Before he can think he’s out, slamming the car door shut behind him, and letting himself into the building.

And then the apartment door is in front of him. With Steve behind it.

He thinks to himself, _I’m a different person now. I live in another country and I’m independent. I can apologise to an old friend. That’s the kind of person I am now._ He starts to think about Steve, a high-school dropout living with his mom, and realises that this isn’t scary at all.

He takes a deep breath, holds it in his chest so he feels bigger than he is, and knocks on the door.

No footsteps. The door opens after ten seconds. Bucky strongly suspects Steve counted them off in his head, waiting behind the door.

There’s Steve. Blonde, blue-eyed, skinny, pale, so small that Bucky could pick him up and–-

He looks good. Amazing. Better than Bucky’s seen him in an age. His skin is winter pale and his hair is shiny and his posture is straight, his eyes are bright and his lips are bitten and red. Lips that aren’t smiling. 

The last time he saw Steve he’d said awful things, things that were all true because the things he’d felt were awful too. Bucky balls his fists inside his jacket pockets and tries not to analyse the wave of emotion that hits him when his eyes meet Steve’s.

“Hey,” Bucky says. As the visitor he feels it’s his job to speak first.

“Hey.” Steve steps back and Bucky enters, walks into the living room as Steve closes the door and follows.

Bucky laughs a little because nothing’s changed. The same kitchen table with the two chairs, the same books on the side and overused kettle. And on the right, that second door, is Steve’s room.

“Sorry to drop in unannounced,” Bucky says as Steve sits down at the table. Bucky stands around awkwardly for a moment before taking the other seat.

“Natasha told me you were coming, so it’s not completely out of the blue.”

“Right.” Bucky nods. “You guys are friends now, huh?”

“We were always friends. We’re just closer.”

Probing, Bucky asks, “You guys share a lot?”

“What are you referring to?” Steve asks flatly, unimpressed. He’s got the wrong end of the stick. It’s not that Bucky’s worried about Steve sharing with Natasha. It’s about what Natasha has to share with Steve. But the fact that Steve’s not brought it up yet bodes well. Kid never could keep his mouth shut.

“Nothin’. You look healthy.”

“Healthy-ish." 

“Better than nothin’.”

“Yeah.”

Silence again. Bucky fidgets and acts interested in the mugs on the sideboard. It’s never been awkward with Steve before. He manages to not let it make him sad.

“I should have said goodbye before I left,” Bucky says, and this grabs Steve’s attention, stops him looking disinterested and almost cold, like Bucky’s never seen him before.

“Yeah. You should have.”

“That was wrong. I’m sorry.”

Steve presses his lips together in a contentious smile. “Whatever.”

“Whatever?”

“It was so long ago.”

“It wasn’t." 

“It was for me.”

Is this a challenge? Is Steve telling Bucky that his life is full and he doesn’t need him anymore? Two can play at that game.

“I guess it seems recent to me ‘cos I’ve been so busy,” Bucky replies, satisfied with the pettiness level of his response.

Steve huffs a laugh from his nose. “Sure.”

“Do you forgive me?”

“Yeah.”

Bucky nods and moves his chair back. “Right. Thanks. Good, that’s good.” He can move on now. That’s what was eating him up. That’s the only thing he did wrong. You don’t make that kind of connection with someone and then leave without saying goodbye. What kind of loose ends had Steve had to deal with, how many of their moments together had been tainted and invalidated and torn away in Steve’s mind? And that was Bucky’s doing, the whole thing, all the time they had together had been something different to Bucky than it had been to Steve and that was on Bucky for not allowing either of them closure. 

But now they can both move on.

“See ya, Steve.” He gets up to go, tenses pre-emptively as he passes Steve, expecting wholeheartedly that Steve will reach out to stop him or tell him to wait. But he doesn’t, and Bucky goes, and on the drive home he gets a Glenn Miller song stuck in his head.

* * *

When Bucky walks past Steve there is nothing Steve wants more in the world than to reach out and grab him and yell, “What do you say to a dinosaur to ask it to dinner?”

Is it really possible that that part of his life is over so soon? It’s been over for so long but he never really felt it until now. To be around Bucky like that and have nothing to say was… liberating. He’s always felt a little under Bucky’s spell but now he can hold his own. Maybe they can be friends now, actually get to know each other within the parameters of a normal friendship. It would be nice to have someone to write letters to. His penmanship is getting rusty.

He works the rest of the week as usual, flouring surfaces and kneading dough and serving customers with a smile. It brings him happiness to be at work, gives him the utilitarian purpose that comes with paid labour. He likes his colleagues and the money is fine, and anything he drops on the floor he feeds to the stray dogs outside in the alley. (On the days when they show up he is prone to dropping a few more loaves than usual.)

Natasha usually visits in the evenings but now that Bucky’s visiting she doesn’t show. She calls him and cancels, never leaves him hanging, tells him she’s got family duties or something to that extent. He doesn’t mind, it just sucks sometimes that he only has one friend.

Friday evening, he’s sitting at the table with his mother when the phone rings. Sarah picks it up. “Hello?” The person on the other end says something and Sarah rolls her eyes and passes the phone to Steve, says, “It’s Scott.”

Steve puts it to his ear. “Hey, Scott.”

“Steve! My man, my main man, my guy, my buddy, what’s up?" 

“Not much.”

“Haven’t heard that voice in a while! Been missin’ ya! Although, sadly, I did not call just to hear that sweet alto. No, I called to invite you to Bucky’s homecoming bash." 

Steve just smirks, aware of his mother’s eyes on him. “What?”

“Bucky’s back! We need to celebrate and you’re invited.”

“I don’t know if I can come.”

“Why not? Nat told me when you work, I know you’re free tonight!”

Dammit. “Well, I’m kinda tired.”

“I’ll make you some coffee! We need you here or it’s not a party!”

“Seriously?” This makes him smile. 

“Yeah! You’re part of the gang, and we’re gettin’ the gang back together!”

“No Sam, though.”

“Sam is dead to me. He left and so he’s dead to me.”

“Bucky left, too.”

“But he came back! He’ll pick you up at eight.” And Scott hangs up before Steve can argue.

“Well?” Sarah asks. “What did that miscreant want from you?”

“I guess I’m going to a party.”

“I’d assumed he wanted to borrow some money.”

“He’s loaded.”

“He doesn’t _sound_ loaded.”

“Mom!”

Sarah just shrugs and pours herself more tea.

Steve goes to his closet and looks at the eight shirts he owns, looks at them through the lens of his old life. The blue shirt he’d worn the first time he’d met Bucky. They didn’t let him take the hospital gown home, so he doesn’t have what he wore the last time. He picks out his white shirt and brown pants, changing out of his work uniform.

Before the clock strikes eight, he looks at himself in his tiny bedroom mirror and prepares to give himself his usual pre-party pep talk. But it’s then he realises he hasn’t looked at himself in the mirror in months. Not since Bucky left.

He looks different. Healthier. Has he grown? His eyes are half an inch closer to the top of the mirror. And his eyes – have they always been so blue, his skin so pale and freckled? He certainly has been getting more sun, walking to and from work.

If Steve didn’t know better, he’d call himself handsome.

But of course, he does know better. You can’t be handsome when you’re five foot four at age eighteen. So he settles on ‘non-repulsive’ and says goodbye to his mom.

When he leaves the building, Bucky is waiting outside, car empty except for himself. Steve realises he never got his pep talk as he suddenly can’t breathe. Quickly he tells himself that he’s fine, he’s done this before, Bucky is his friend, Bucky isn’t the stranger that he feels like.

As he climbs into the passenger side, he asks, “Are we picking Natasha up on the way?”

“She’s already there,” Bucky answers, his smooth, deep, adolescent voice affecting Steve more at such close quarters. “Helped Scott set up.”

“Oh. I would have helped if I’d known.”

Bucky just shrugs and starts the car.

* * *

 

After half an hour of silence, they pull into Scott’s huge driveway. Bucky raises his eyebrows as he sees how many cars there are; thirty or forty instead of the usual zero.

“What the hell…” he says under his breath as he drives up, and then louder, “I’m gonna have to reverse into a spot. I haven’t done that in years.”

“Why are all these cars here?” Steve asks as Bucky shifts into reverse and prepares to back up.

“No clue.”

He squeezes the old car between two much newer models and he and Steve step out onto the gravel and approach the house.

Incredibly loud and way too bright, Scott’s house is lit up. Bucky peers through the front window at the packed living room filled with people he vaguely recognises.

Steve turns to Bucky and asks, “Who the hell are all these people?” Bucky frowns and replies, “I think we went to high school with them.”

“You’re right,” says a voice from beside them. Bucky jumps and turns to see Scott sitting on his front step with five empty beers beside him. “God, you’re right.”

“What happened?” Bucky asks, moving some bottles to sit next to Scott. There is only space for two people, not enough to accommodate Steve, and Bucky feels bad about this briefly before Scott wails loudly.

“Well I ran into Tony at the supermarket and he asked about you, and I said I was havin’ a reunion party tonight. He assumed I meant high school reunion and now...” Scott puts his head in his hands. “I am so grounded.”

Bucky pats him reassuringly on the back. “There, there… Uh, it’ll be okay…” He looks to Steve for help, who chimes in, “Set some ground rules, maybe?”

“They don’t listen to me!” Scott cries, shaking his head, rubbing it into his hands as he does so. “I tried to tell them to stay out of the upstairs liquor cabinet but they took it anyway! That crème de menthe was centuries old!”

Despite not knowing what crème de menthe is, Bucky can tell this is bad. He begins to rack his brain for some kind of solution when he hears a “psst”, and sees Steve beckoning him over.

Bucky leaves the wailing Scott and follows Steve a few feet for a private word. Steve looks up at him and says, “You have to do it.”

“What?”

“Tell people not to mess up Scott’s stuff. These people don’t even know Scott, he didn’t go to our high school! But they love you.”

Bucky snorts. “I was the valedictorian.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Would you stop with the modesty? Now’s not the time. You were the most popular guy in school. Even more popular than Tony, because half the girls hated him, the amount of shit he tried."

Bucky smirks at the memory, but stops when Steve glares at him. “Fine,” Bucky says. “I’ll go stand on a table, shall I?” When Steve nods, he cries, “I was joking!”

“It’s a good idea. Now go, before real tears start coming out of him.” Steve gestures to Scott, whose cries are only getting louder.

Bucky feels like crying with him as he enters the house. Blaring jazz and blazing heat hit him as he walks inside and squeezes between the huge crowd of gyrating teens. He recognises everyone; there’s Peter, and that’s Pepper and – Tony.

Bucky makes a B-line for him and grabs him by his shirt collar. Under his hand, he can tell it’s worth more than his whole outfit.

Tony yelps and tries to push him off, while Pepper giggles. “Hey, Bucky, what gives?”

“You don’t even _know_ Scott. Why would you think he wanted a high school reunion for a high school he didn’t even go to?”

Tony tries to push him off again, to no avail. He gives in and sighs. “Isn’t it obvious? Don’t you know he’s a thief?”

“Don’t be stupid, he’s rich as shit.”

“Not him, his father. He stole money from my father’s company. They got to keep the cash when he got caught. Don’t you wonder why you’ve never met his dad?”

Bucky frowns, his grip loosening on Tony. “He said he was always out of town…”

“Yeah, he is, in a Manhattan jail.” Tony takes advantage of Bucky’s loose grip and shoves him off, brushes himself down. “I wanted to get a bit of payback.”

“You’re an asshole,” Bucky says, staring down at Tony, never having noticed how short he is until now.

“Yeah, well, you’ve changed. It was just a joke.”

“It’s not funny.”

Bucky turns away before Tony can answer, stands on the big coffee table in the middle of the room, puts his fingers in his mouth, and whistles.

Someone turns off the music and suddenly dozens of eyes are staring at him. Suddenly it’s July all over again and he’s standing on the stage at graduation. This is daunting until he remembers that – he’s done this before.

He gulps. “Uh, hi. Look, this is Scott Lang’s house, and he didn’t want this party. You don’t have to go, but just… quit wrecking his stuff, okay? Be respectful.”

“And don’t smoke inside!” Scott yells from the entrance. “It harms the wallpaper!”

“And don’t smoke inside,” Bucky repeats. “Got it?”

There’s a murmur of consent from the crowd.

“Thanks,” Bucky mumbles before stepping down. The music is turned back on and the party quickly returns to full swing.

“That was so embarrassing,” Bucky says to Scott as the other boy crushes him in a hug.

“Thank you thank you thank you,” Scott says, squeezing him so tight Bucky has to push him off. “I owe you my life.”

“I’ll settle for a drink.”

“What are you having?”

“Crème de menthe?” Bucky jokes, and Scott punches his arm and hands him a beer.

They catch up for a while before Scott catches someone by the Ming vases and wanders off to yell at them. Bucky leans against a cabinet and drinks his beer, watching the crowd talk and dance and kiss. He sees boy and girl, hand in hand, giggle as they climb Scott’s staircase, presumably to find one of the many rooms to be alone in. He was that boy just weeks ago, with girl after girl after girl, room after room after room, being alone in every single one of them.

He likes sex. He does. But it’s just not sex, what he does. It’s lies.

“I’m surprised they let you back in the country,” says a familiar voice from behind him. He turns and sees Nat, smiling as widely as Nat can, smoking indoors despite all of Scott’s party rules. She looks mostly unchanged, except for her hair, straight as a poker instead of her usual short curls. Still as beautiful as ever.

Bucky embraces her with genuine happiness, but when his face is pressed in her hair and that smell surfaces, he remembers how they’d left things. She’d been his friend, and taken his virginity.

With this in his mind, he faces her with a mild blush. She just smirks and says, “You need to get drunk.”

“You trynna take advantage of me?” blurts Bucky. Immediately he hates himself, wishes he could bury himself in sand. What’s asthma when you have foot-in-mouth disease?

Natasha rolls her eyes, takes his hand. “Like I need to get you drunk for that.” And she drags him towards the drinks table, all tension eradicated. They grab drinks, Bucky with a beer while Nat opts for a mysterious green liquid that smells like gasoline, leaning against the fireplace and standing close enough to talk.

“It’s good to see you,” Bucky says.

“You too. You look good.”

“Thanks, you too. I like your hair.”

Nat gives him a little hair flip, grinning. “Thanks. Needed a change.”

A crash comes from across the room; Bucky turns to see Steve apologising profusely to Scott over the broken glass at their feet. Scott, of course, punches him on the shoulder and calls him a klutz.

“He hasn’t changed, then,” Bucky muses with a fond smile, watching Steve squat down and carefully pick up the pieces.

“Yes he has.” Natasha watches Steve, too. “He doesn’t talk about you.”

“That makes sense.”

“He used to talk about you all the time.”

“He did?”

“Could not get him to shut up.”

“Wouldn’t know about that. Never tried.”

In the brief pause in conversation, the question he’s been dying to ask comes out of him: “Does he know about what happened? Between us?”

Natasha takes a sip of her drink, but doesn’t turn. “No. I didn’t think it would be wise.”

Bucky nods. “Thanks.”

“Are you sure you want to continue to keep things from him?”

“I just don’t want to hurt him again.”

Nat looks at him with her probing look, the one she saves for when she knows what he’s thinking. Bucky feels a brief relief that their friendship is relatively unchanged; she still knows him better than ever. “You think he would still care?”

Steve sweeps the remainder of the glass into a dustpan. He re-joins the party, untouched beer in hand, stands awkwardly to the side until Scott sneaks up behind him and gets him in a headlock.

Bucky doesn’t answer Natasha, just hands her his drink with a smirk and goes to pull Scott off of Steve.

“Hey hey hey,” he says, grabbing Scott by the shoulders and yanking him off with ease. “No fighting, boys.”

“I was just joking,” Scott says, grinning at Steve, who doesn’t return the humour.

“You don’t know how strong you are, Scott,” Bucky says, punching Scott lightly in the arm and feeling the muscle there. “You’ve hit puberty, finally.”

“Ha ha,” Scott mocks. “I’m going to find Hope.”

“Aren’t we all?” Bucky calls after him, and turns with a smile to Steve.

“Thanks,” says Steve, rubbing his neck sheepishly. “He’s really strong.”

“I know. It’s weird, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. You can’t have that sense of humour _and_ muscles. It’s just wrong.”

There’s a silence again, less gaping now that they’re surrounded by noise and people, but still a silence. Bucky fills it by asking, “Can I get you a drink?”

“Sure,” Steve replies, and they wander over to the kitchen.

Bucky starts pouring Steve a beer when Steve asks, “So, haven’t heard from you in a couple months. How’ve you been?”

“Oh, good. Just been workin’ hard.”

“How’s the weather in England?”

“About as good as you’d expect it to be.”

“So, pretty shit.”

“Yeah.” He hands Steve the beer and pours his own, and they lean against the countertop. Bucky feels his hip bump Steve’s and slides a few inches away from him.

“How’s the bakery?”

“Great! I’m so lucky I got the job. I don’t even have a GED.”

“Yeah, how did you land such a good gig?”

“I honestly don’t know. I guess someone up there likes me.” Steve smiles dryly, and Bucky can’t tell if he’s being serious or not, but he smiles back all the same. It’s possible, with enough politeness and small talk, that they can get back on speaking terms. All Bucky needs to do is avoid the dangerous subjects.

“You seem happy,” Bucky says.

“I am.” After clear hesitation, Steve asks, “Are you?”

Bucky is about to give the bland, untrue lie he would give a stranger when Tony descends upon them. He stands in front of Bucky without even giving a second glance to Steve.

“I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to apologise. I was a huge, ginormous dick.”  
  
“Past tense?”

“I just wanted to blow off steam, okay? Things have been rough at home…” He rubs his neck, clearly not well suited with emotion. “I wasn’t right to take advantage of Scott. Happy?”

Bucky smiles and claps him on the shoulder. “No problem. Glad you’ve seen the light. We’re cool.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Seems like things are going well with Pepper, saw you two dancing together earlier.”

“Yeah, things are great. I started doing this new thing where I don’t lie to her, it works really well. Who’d have known? Oh,” he adds, smirking and clapping Bucky’s shoulder back, “I heard about the girlfriend. I’ve got friends at Cambridge and they told me about another American who’s recently been seen ‘snogging’ this hot little ginger. Congratulations, you’re a man now!”

Tony keeps smiling at him and Bucky just smiles back, plasters it on his face, and asks to be excused.

He walks right into the centre of the party, bodies surrounding him on all sides. When he looks behind him, Steve is following him. He’s forced to stop when he can go no further and Steve catches up to him and simply stares.

“What?” Bucky yells. “What?”

“What did he just say?”

“What?”

“You have a girlfriend?”

“We’re not official.”

“You have a girlfriend, are you kidding me?”

“She’s not my girlfriend. Steve –"

“Are you fucking with me?”

“No!”

“You’re fucking-” He stops himself.

“I’m what?” Bucky yells back at him, eyes blazing, drink almost spilling. “I’m fucking what?”

“You know I can’t say it!” Steve shouts, so loud it hurts Bucky’s ears. “Not when there are people around!”

“I don’t know what you’re even talking about.”

“You’re an asshole,” Steve shouts, prodding Bucky in the chest so hard he stumbles backwards, vision blurring as he blinks too hard. “You’re a fucking asshole. I should have seen it. You’re just a dumb jock that wants something to stick his dick into.”

“You’re just a stupid kid! You don’t know anything about anything!” It’s dark in the middle of the crowd. Someone lights a cigarette and Steve’s eyes dart over Bucky’s face in the light. “You don’t know what it’s like for me! All you think about is yourself and how hard your life is, but you’re lucky! You have so much more than you think you do.”

“What, like the ability to remember to say goodbye to someone before leaving for three months?”

Bucky steps backwards like he’s been hit and raises his hands. “You forgave me.”

“No I didn’t. You’re not that much of an idiot to think I really forgave you.”

“I didn’t want you to find out this way, about Dolores-“

“What kinda stupid name is that?”

“I thought you’d think it was a _good_ thing-“

“Well, it’s none of my business.”

“What?”

“It makes no difference to me, right?” Steve has to yell over the noise, but Bucky picks up on his bitterness.

“How could you think that?” Bucky asks. “How could you think anything in my life has nothing to do with you? Especially this?”

“Especially this,” Steve mocks, shaking his head. “I thought you wanted to take it back.”

It’s too much for Bucky. Steve still affects him as much as he ever did. “God, Stevie! Stop it!”

“What?”

“Stop bein’ such an asshole!”

“ _I’m_ the asshole?”

“You have no idea what my life is like—”

“Please, enlighten me about how _hard_ things are for you—”

“ _You_ make things hard! You’re not good for me!” Bucky gestures at Steve so wildly he splashes beer in Steve’s face. Steve flinches - at the words, or the beer, it’s hard to tell. “You’re not! You’re really, really bad for me.”

 _I think you could be good for me, Steve Rogers._ It had been the beginning and those are always so simple.

When had it all gone so wrong? But it had been too long to tell. Bucky was always going to love Steve and Steve was always not going to know what to do with it.

It’s loud, and Steve speaks quietly when he’s hurt, but Bucky doesn’t have to be a lip reader to know he says, “You’re bad for me too.” Of course, this is something Bucky already knew. He’s bad for everyone. He’s even bad for himself. It should be illegal for him to fall in love as hard as he has. Steve never stood a chance.

Bucky’s anger seeps from him as he takes Steve’s hand, gently, and pulls him from the party, not turning back to look at Steve’s face, just keeps pulling him because Steve is letting him. They exit through the back doors, past the smokers and the drunks and the couples making out, to the bottom of the garden with the fancy hedgerows that Bucky knows can hide you when you need it.

“I’ve never been here before,” Steve whispers as they face each other in the darkness. Is he trying to make conversation? At a time like this? It’s so Steve that Bucky wants to laugh.

Bucky gets a clean feel of him without the crowd, without people bumping into him when he’s trying to get out a sentence. Steve feels warm from two feet away.

“I’m sorry,” says Bucky.

“I know.”

“No, I’m really sorry. I want you to get that.”

“I know you are.”

Bucky shakes his head. “You don’t. I think about what I did every day. It changed me. Everything I do is about trying to forget it, but I can’t. I’m not happy.”

“But England—“

“I’m not happy. I’m not having fun. I’m busy and I’m popular but it’s fake and all I think about is you. The only letters I write are to Natasha and all I ask about is you. Dolores…” He trails off. Steve’s look is judgmental but clearly trying not to be.

“It’s not fair to her,” Steve says.

“I know. But it makes it all easier.”

“Do you two…” Steve fidgets around it, clearly uncomfortable. “You know…” His eyes meet Bucky’s and he drops the subject.

“I want to forgive you,” Steve says, voice earnest, taking Bucky’s hand. Bucky doesn’t even notice. “I do, but I still care too much. You’re still my best friend, and so it still hurts. All of it.”

Bucky nods. So forgiveness is on the table. He just has to earn it. But how? What’s something Steve needs from him? What, really, has he done wrong?

He’s taken Steve for granted. He’s skirted around the subject, thought that his confession of liking boys was enough honesty for one lifetime, thought it wasn’t obvious that he liked one boy in particular. He’d denied Steve his kiss and told him he loved him and then taken it back. He’d wished Steve had died, in a tiny, tiny part of his mind. Tiny, but true.

Honesty is what Steve needs from Bucky. How could he move on without it?

“I meant it,” Bucky says. He realises Steve has his hand, and squeezes it. That feeling takes him back, way back to the hospital beds, to James Rogers, extremely attentive older brother with an affinity for hand holding. Steve’s hand is cold; Bucky’s brain kicks into gear that he shouldn’t have brought Steve out here on a winter night. He takes off his jacket and slides it onto Steve’s shoulders. Steve mutters a thanks, not taking his eyes off Bucky’s face, just waiting for him to continue.

Bucky takes a breath and repeats, “I meant it.”

“You meant what?”

“You know what.”

“You meant _what_?” Steve insists. He looks desperate for it, blue eyes large, barely breathing.

“When I said I love you.”

Steve raises his eyebrows at the present tense. Bucky himself wonders just how that came out of his mouth. He doesn’t love Steve, still, of course. He hasn’t seen the kid in months.

“I loved you so much,” he adds quietly. He closes his eyes for a second, briefly overwhelmed by the emptiness that that love has left behind.

“Thank you,” Steve says from next to him. “I needed to hear that. I think… that I can forgive you now.”

Bucky raises his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I understand what you did, all of it. You were scared, and I was scared too. I think I expected too much from you. I always thought you’d know exactly what to do, and that wasn’t fair.”

“I’m only human,” is Bucky’s lame attempt at lightening the tension a little.

“Yeah.” Steve smiles. “So, I’m sorry too.”

Bucky just rolls his eyes. “What the hell d’you have to be sorry for?”

“For misunderstanding you, for blaming you. And I asked for you to kiss me, and that was wrong. I’m glad you said no.”

This hurts Bucky’s heart, and he can’t pretend he doesn’t know why. “How come?”

“Cos it was my dying wish. I put way too much pressure on you. I’m glad you did what you wanted to do.”

Looking at Steve right now, saying no isn’t what he wants to do.

After a moment of silence, Steve pats Bucky’s hand and takes off the jacket. Bucky pushes it back on him, but Steve says, “It’s okay. I’m gonna go back inside, it’s way too cold out here.” He smiles again at Bucky and stands to walk away, but turns back.

“If you could do it again,” Steve asks, standing perfectly still, his shivers momentarily superseded, “would you do anything different?”

_Kiss me._

_Kiss me, I’ll be your first._

_You always remember your first._

What if he’d said yes? What if he’d crossed that hospital room and done what he’d been thinking about for months, what he knew he’d be thinking about for the rest of his life? How many times had he wanted to kiss Steve but hadn’t? Every time they were laughing, every time they were in a room alone together, when they held hands, when they lay down on the grass, in the car, in the halls, in the hospital bed. Bucky imagines pressing his lips to Steve’s, pushes past his self-restraint and actually imagines kissing him. The warmth, the dry lips and rubbing noses. He could have put his hand through Steve’s hair. Held his hand. Dried his tears with kisses. He could have made Steve happy, made him feel loved and safe and warm and not scared anymore. He still could.

Briefly, he wonders if Steve ever loved him back.

“Yes,” Bucky answers.

Steve waits for him to elaborate, and when nothing comes, he returns to the house.

Tears fill Bucky’s eyes. What the fuck is wrong with him? Why does happiness feel like danger?

He returns to the party, drinks too much, and throws up in one of the downstairs bathrooms. Steve catches his eye as Bucky takes some girl upstairs with him, and Bucky has to blink back tears.

* * *

 

So when Steve asks Bucky round for dinner, Bucky tries to keep the surprise from his voice. He holds the phone to his ear, leaning against the wall, and replies, “Yeah, sure. Sounds good,” in a tone much calmer than what he’s feeling.

A week after the party, a week of no contact. Bucky lounges around, relishing his lack of things to do, Steve goes to work and continues on as normal, assumedly. The invitation comes entirely out of the blue and in the few hours between the phone call and seven p.m., it’s all Bucky can think about.

He parks on the side of the road and sits in his car for ten minutes until the clock on his dash tells him it’s seven. Even then, he doesn’t leave. He’s nervous. Will Steve’s mom be there? It’ll be scary if she is, and if she’s not. He’s done so much wrong to Steve that it’s uncomfortable to even think of him, let alone be around him.

He calls to mind the early days before things were messy, when Steve would tell him terrible jokes and make Bucky laugh so hard he felt like he would be laughing forever. Sitting on the baseball field killing time, watching Steve sleep from the floor of his bedroom, trips to the nurse’s office, hours upon hours in hospital. It had to all be worth something to him, right? Even if it was dulled by everything that had happened, it had to mean something to him.

He gets out of the car and knocks on Steve’s door.

Steve answers, cracks a smile. “You’re late.”

“I’m always late.”

“You’re never late.”

“It’s an England thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

Steve stands aside so Bucky can come in, closing the door behind them. Bucky wanders inside, loitering a little to see what Steve will do, whether he wants him to sit down or stand up or go grab a beer or what. Steve sits down at the kitchen table, so Bucky sits opposite.

“Is your mom home?”

“She’s out, but she left some food for us in the fridge. You hungry?”

“Sure.”

Bucky sits like a good house guest while Steve busies himself preparing the meal of two baloney sandwiches each. It’s something they don’t have to heat up on the stove, most likely because Sarah doesn’t want her house burned down by two teenage boys who’ve never cooked in their lives.

They eat and catch up, Bucky telling Steve about all the times he’s nearly been run over by cars driving on the left, Steve telling Bucky about the weight he’s gained from bringing home leftovers from work. Steve makes Bucky laugh and everything seems better for a moment, and it’s like nothing has changed.

So he has to ask: “Why did you invite me round?”

Steve looks like he’s been expecting this question. “Because. At Scott’s thing, we got everything out in the open. So, now we can be friends again, right?”

Bucky can’t help it. He beams. “Right.”

Steve nods, trying to stifle a smile. “Right. So, dinner. I’ve missed you,” he adds, quieter.

“I missed ya too, Stevie.”

Steve grins and slaps Bucky on the arm. “God! You’re seriously gonna keep callin’ me that?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Alright, then I’m callin’ you Buck.”

“I like that now. I heard this thing in England about guys called Buck, and how they like to… ya know.”

“Be respectful to women,” Steve finishes, and Bucky erupts into laughter.

Steve makes some tea and they talk for hours until Sarah comes home, remarking how Bucky looks like a son she had in a dream once. Bucky tells her that yes, he _is_ a dream, and Steve and Sarah roll their eyes in unison.

When she’s in bed, Bucky and Steve make more tea and talk in whispers, moving their chairs closer together, close enough for Bucky to smell Steve’s smell. It’s the same, mixed with freshly baked bread. It smells delicious.

When it’s late enough, they start talking about it again.

It starts with Steve saying that he’s missed Bucky again. Bucky replies, “I missed ya too.”

Steve replies, “No, you didn’t. I bet you were having too much fun.”

“There’s only so much fun you can have three thousand miles from your best friend.”

“So I’m still…”

“Yeah, of course. You always will be. Am I?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Thanks for forgiving me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I need to ask you something.”

Steve raises one eyebrow in anticipation. “Oh really?”

Bucky shuffles his chair ever closer until their knees interlock, one of Bucky’s knees in between Steve’s, one of Steve’s between Bucky’s. His breath comes out too fast. It feels like exertion to get the words out.

“You asked me to kiss you.”

Steve’s knuckles whiten as he grips his mug, takes a long sip. He nods. “Yep.”

“Why?”

Steve looks into Bucky’s eyes for a long moment. It feels like Bucky will burst.

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

Steve shrugs and gives a smile. “I guess I just wanted to see.”

“See _what_?”

“What it would feel like.”

What does _that_ mean? Bucky looks away and chews his lip, feeling Steve’s eyes on him. Was he Steve’s experiment? It feels cheap.

Steve senses his discomfort and sighs, putting the mug down and facing Bucky. “That’s not… let me try again. I’ve been analysing this ever since it happened. I was bold because I was dying, but why I asked for _that…_ it was the only thing I could think about. That was it. All I could think was, if I’m going to die, I don’t want to die not having done this. I wished for it on my birthday. I couldn’t have that wish not come true.”

There’s a million questions Bucky wants to ask, but he doesn’t. If Steve ever had feelings for him, he doesn’t now. If he did, he wouldn’t be telling Bucky all this.

“Thank you,” Bucky tells him, and means it.

Steve attempts a playful smirk. “Don’t mention it.”

Not long after, the yawns set in for Steve, and Bucky leaves so he can get some rest. Steve waves from his bedroom doorway as Bucky heads towards the front door, and when Bucky makes to close it behind him, Steve’s door is closed.

Bucky’s hand freezes for a moment on the door handle, eyes fixed on Steve’s bedroom door. Inside which is Steve’s bed. Inside which was Bucky. God, he’d been obsessed with Steve. Absolutely insane with it. Making up excuses to sleep in Steve’s bed, that’s not healthy.

But it had been worth it. So worth it. To occupy Steve’s space for a while, to close his eyes and pretend that he was Steve Rogers, living without a care in the world, surrounded by love and miracles and bad luck. He’d stared at the wall Steve must stare at, trying to think the thoughts Steve must think.

It had been worth it. And he’d do it again in a heartbeat.

He doesn’t think about this fact as he closes the door behind him and drives home.

* * *

Steve’s alarm clock wakes him at 6.30a.m. He knocks it off the bedside table and it crashes to the floor, the alarm petering out to a dull whine. Damnit, that’s the third one this month.

Sitting up, he considers his dream. He’d been late for class. Weird, considering he’s never had this concern in real life, even when he actually attended high school.

He rubs his eyes and stands, pads through to the kitchen to put the kettle on the stove. While he waits for it to boil he looks out through the big window in the kitchen/living room area, at the snow on the street, falling lightly. It’s still dark outside, something which will make his walk to work that much more interesting.

He pours himself a cup of tea and sits at the kitchen table until his mom wakes at 7. She ruffles his hair and says, “Good morning, child,” before sitting across from him. He slides her the cup of tea he’d made for her and she thanks him, and he says that she’s very welcome.

They chat for a while until Steve goes to get dressed, and then they chat some more, until it’s 7.45 and he’s out the door. His mother wraps him in two scarves and reminds him never to talk to strangers.

“But what if I’m working the register?” Steve asks.

“Even then. Mime if you have to.”

He steps out into the freezing air, snow crunching under his winter boots, and smiles. Then, he grins. Because he’s in the cold air and he’s not coughing, he’s not in danger of dying from a cold he might catch. Well, he is, but he doesn’t feel like it. No, for the first time in Steve’s life, he feels healthy.

As he walks along the sidewalk, he thinks about the dinner with Bucky last night. He really did want them to be friends again, more than anything. They were good friends, best friends once, before everything started getting messy, before all motives became ulterior. He wants that back. His life is better with Bucky in it, that he knows for sure.

Not that his life isn’t good now. It’s actually really good, maybe even great. Steve’s happier than he’s been in a little while. Maybe it’s the sort-of-closure with Bucky, maybe it’s having him back in his life, maybe it’s neither. Maybe it’s just that he’s healthy-ish and his mom is healthy-ish and he loves his job and he’s busy and… he’s happy. He’s got a life now. He’s got something that measures up to Bucky’s English escapades, the huge, amazing thing of the Cambridge scholarship. Now his ego has a fighting chance.

The little bell tinkles as he gets into the bakery, and the smell hits him. Fresh bread and flour and icing. It’s the most delicious smell in the world. Steve has gained two pounds since working here, which for him, is a lot.

He gets right to work, setting out the cakes that are already made, writing up the little label for the daily special – today, ‘Lemon Drizzle’. He smiles at that; it’s his mom’s favourite. He hopes he gets to bring some home to her.

Soon people start coming in. There are the regulars who come in a couple times a week for their loaves, and the rest who are drawn in by the smell or the display or their appetite. He works the counter, serving people with a smile, recommending his favourites to those who are indecisive. His favourite part of working the counter is when children come in, and he gets to hand them the basket of free samples and watch their faces light up. How he managed to get this job with no GED and zero experience, he’ll never know, but he thanks God every day for it.

He comes back from his break around two, the break consisting of eating a roll in the back room and chatting with the proper bakers, the ones who are allowed to ice things. When he returns, he puts on his apron and relieves his cover, and greets the beautiful woman on the other side of the glass with a big friendly smile that soon falters when he realises just how beautiful she is.

“Hi,” the woman says to him, smiling back, amused at something, probably because Steve is staring.

“Hi,” he says. “What can I get you?”

“Hmm.” She looks inside the glass at the display, all the cakes and loaves and tarts in circles and pyramids, lovingly designed by Steve himself. “They all look so beautiful. Did you do this display?”

“Yeah,” Steve answers, weirdly proud that someone finally noticed.

“It’s fantastic. I think I’ll have an iced bun, please.” She puts her finger on the glass, pointing. “That one there looks particularly delicious.” She says this while looking at Steve. He blushes.

“That’s a quarter, please,” he says, placing her wrapped bun on the counter.

She reaches up and puts the quarter into his hand, fingers brushing his palm. He’s frozen for a moment, and stares at her while she takes the bun, blows him a kiss, and leaves.

“Hello? Sir? I’d like a tiger loaf. Sir?”

There’s a customer waiting for him. He quickly apologises and gets back to work.

* * *

 

Alone in his room that night, Steve thinks about what happened that day.

Who was that woman? Why was she interested in someone like him? Was that just her personality, flirtatious? Even then, no one had flirted with him in his life.

It’s probably because I’m on a stool, he thinks, so she thinks I’m tall. That’ll be it, he thinks. And not for one second does Steve think himself handsome.

But more importantly, what had his reaction been? The only experience of that was with… well, it wasn’t with someone of that gender, that’s for sure. He’d blushed around Nurse Sharon, and Doctor Carter, and even when Miss Hill got too close to him, but it wasn’t anything like that. No one had ever openly shown interest in him. No one.

Was he showing interest back, though? Was he just stunned by her beauty, muscle memory making him blush? Did his attraction to someone of the same gender mean he was forbidden from the opposite?

He comes to the conclusion that he’s going to relax about the whole thing. It’s not like he’s looking to date, anyway. But, he’s not _not_ looking.

He goes to sleep then because his head hurts.

The beautiful woman is there the next day, too.

“I don’t normally do this,” she confesses to Steve. “I’m usually a healthy eater. But I can’t resist. This place is different from other bakeries.”

Now that he’s decided to relax, and reminded himself that a woman as beautiful as that dating someone like him would make the universe explode, it’s easier to talk to her.

“Well, a little cake makes life worth living, that’s what I say,” he tells her, leaning across the counter to look at the cakes with her. “The rocky road is real good today, I had some with my lunch. We made way too much, too, so you’d be helpin’ us out.”

“Okay, you sold me,” she grins, watching gleefully as he puts it into the bag for her. She’s already got the quarter ready for him before he opens his mouth.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Lorraine,” she says.

“Huh?”

“That’s my name. Steve,” she adds, squinting at his name badge.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks her with a not entirely unflirtatious smile.

“Depends on how good this is,” she says, holding up the cake as she leaves. And if he’s not mistaken, she winks at him.

* * *

 

The next day when Steve returns from lunch, a familiar face is waiting for him that makes his heart race.

“Hey, Stevie. Look at you! You’re wearin’ an apron! I love it.”

Steve grins, leans over the counter so Bucky can see him roll his eyes. “You again?”

Bucky shrugs, looks relatively vulnerable in unknown territory, but still the most outwardly comfortable person you could ever see. God, he’s handsome too. Had he always been this handsome? Steve thinks that maybe he hadn’t. Puberty is still going at eighteen, right? So Bucky’s still growing and changing.

It looks like his face is a bit more filled out, his cheeks red and flushed, aggressively healthy. He’s freshly shaved but there’s evidence of a one o’clock shadow under his nose. And he’s taller, somehow. He must be around six foot, or over, by now. It just adds insult to injury where Steve is concerned. He hasn’t grown since ninth grade. People around Bucky are staring, always noticing how beautiful he is. Steve lets it pad his ego that someone like Bucky once fell for someone like him.

“You come in here for some fine baked goods, or just to see my pretty face?”

“The former, definitely the former.”

Steve laughs. “What can I get for ya?”

Bucky deliberates, and Steve watches his hair flop forwards when he leans down to get a look. And it comes back to him. The All-American baseball player, the straight A student, the popular kid with an incredible kind streak. Bucky was all anyone could ever want. Brown hair and brown, brown eyes. Clear skin, not too tan, not too pale. He was perfect. On the outside.

Steve wonders what his inside is like now. Whether it still hurts like it used to. At least Bucky looks like he’s getting enough sleep.

The bell tinkles as the beautiful woman comes in.

She and Bucky don’t acknowledge each other, standing on different ends of the counter as she smiles at Steve and asks, “What’s good today, honey?”

Steve does a very good job at not looking at Bucky when she does this. “Victoria sponge. Extra cream.”

“Yeah? Why extra?”

“Goes off today.”

She laughs, loud. This makes Bucky glance in her direction, then to Steve, giving him a look of disapproval as if Steve will reciprocate. Steve just looks down at the cakes and bags the sponge for her.

She hands him a quarter and says, “We have to stop meeting like this. Soon I’m not gonna be able to fit through the door!”

“So we’ll get a bigger door,” Steve says. This time, Bucky’s look is directed at Steve and Steve alone. Disapproval. Lots of it.

“See you later, Steve.”

“See you, Lorraine.”

When the woman leaves, Bucky turns to Steve and says, slightly bewildered, “So, got yourself a girlfriend, too?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “No, dumbass, that’s how you gotta act to customers. Like everything they say is the funniest goddamn thing ever.”

“Kinda went the extra mile there, though… gettin’ a bigger door? How would that even work?”

Steve bristles a little at the scrutiny. “I was just bein’ funny. What do you care?”

Bucky’s face softens into innocence. “I _don’t_ care.”

“Okay. What can I get you?”

“Victoria sponge, since it’s so fabulous.”

Steve puts it in the bag and holds up his hand when Bucky tries to pay. “On the house,” he says, feeling guilty for creating friction between them when Bucky’s clearly trying so hard.

“Thanks, pal. My ma was wonderin’ if you wanna come round for dinner tonight?”

Steve raises his eyebrows in obvious surprise that he’d love to have concealed. “Uh, yeah! That sounds great!”

“See you at six?” Bucky asks, and Steve nods. Bucky nods back once, and ducks out of the store, trying not to hit his head on the bell.

Steve leans back on the worktop behind him. The look on Bucky’s face, his scrutiny… really, Steve shouldn’t have expected anything less. Steve had asked Bucky to kiss him, and now he’s flirting with female customers?

But he’s just flirting because it makes him feel good. She’s beautiful and she’s probably not interested in him, and he’s probably not interested in her now that he thinks about it, but casual flirting is a thing that regular people do, and it just feels good to partake in it.

So Bucky has nothing to be jealous about. Not that he’d be jealous in the first place. Fuck, he’s confused.

* * *

 

He shows up at Bucky’s door at six with a loaf of bread and enough slices of sponge for all of them. It’s only after knocking that he starts getting nervous to see Bucky again. But the door opens before he can think too long on it and Bucky’s mom is pulling Steve into a hug.

“Steve!” he hears her say, his face pressed against her shoulder. “You look so healthy!”

She releases him and he smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, uh, I guess I do, ma’am.”

She waves her hand. “Enough with the ma’ams! How many times do I have to ask you to call me Winifred?”

“A few more, ma’am.”

Fast footsteps approach and he spots Rebecca running down the stairs, noticeably taller than the last time he saw her. She skids to a halt right behind her mom and stares at the top of Steve’s head.

“Hi Rebecca-“

“Ssh.” After a moment, she looks smug and says, “I’m taller than you.”

“You were always taller than me.”

“Nuh uh. Bucky told me you were taller.”

“And you believed him?”

Rebecca stares for a few seconds before running off, yelling, “BUCKY!” at the top of her lungs. Winifred gives Steve an apologetic smile before inviting him inside.

Dinner goes off without a hitch. Steve has learned that good manners and an excellent fake laugh are a successful lubricant for any situation, especially one with parents. It’s a shame he’s not likely to get a girlfriend, because he’d have a great relationship with the in-laws.

Afterwards, Steve offers to help Winifred with clearing the table. “Oh no, you’re the guest!” she protests. “And I’m the mother. So…”

Bucky groans. “Mom, I’m only home for Christmas. Can’t you be nice to me for once?”

“Yeah mom,” Rebecca pipes in, “he’s only home for Christmas. Can’t you be nice to us?”

“Get your own argument!”

“Really,” Steve cuts in. “I don’t mind doing the dishes.”

“Nonsense.” Winifred relaxes back into her chair, sending the message that she doesn’t plan on getting up any time soon. “I gave birth to you two. Since it’s unlikely you’re returning the favour any time soon, I think doing the dishes is a fair repayment.”

The Barnes children grumble but start collecting up plates anyway.

“So, Steve,” Winifred asks Steve as soon as Bucky and Rebecca are gone. “Bucky told me you two lost touch since he went to college. Why is that?”

If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was prying. But Winifred doesn’t have a malicious bone in her body. At least, he hopes.

“Well, your son is a busy man, as am I. Plus, it takes weeks for our letters to reach each other, anyway. It was easy to fall out of touch.”  
  
“Really?” Winifred frowns. “It takes less than a week for me to get a reply from Bucky.”

Steve tenses. He should have thought better than to provide specific detail when he hasn’t sent or received a single letter from Bucky. “Bad memory, sorry. I’m just making excuses, really. I don’t write as much as I should.”

“What are you two squawkin’ about?” Bucky asks as he re-enters the room to scoop up the last of the dishes.

Winifred smiles and looks at Steve like she’s expecting him to answer. With both pairs of eyes on him, Steve manages, “I was just saying that I… wish I wrote you more these last couple months.”

Bucky smiles, a big goofy one that Steve doesn’t think he’s seen the whole time Bucky’s been back. It unsettles Steve’s stomach, making him grip the underside of his chair. “Yeah,” Bucky says, looking Steve right in the eye. “I wish you had too. But you can make up for it next year, right?”

Steve’s fingernails dig into the wood as his heart pounds. “Right.”

“There!” Winifred claps her hands together and Steve’s eyes break from Bucky’s. “All sorted!” She beams and Steve gives her a weak smile.

When Bucky and Rebecca finish up, Bucky excuses himself and Steve, and Steve follows him up to his bedroom. Inside, it looks exactly the same. Not a single thing missing or added, baseball trophies and signed yearbooks stacked up to the ceiling. Steve comments on this, and Bucky says, “Yeah, it’s like my mom wanted to keep a shrine of me. Sometimes she treats me like I’m dying.”

“You didn’t wanna take any of this stuff to college?” Steve asks.

Bucky lays on the bed and shrugs before putting his hands behind his head. “You know I’m not one for stuff, Stevie. I’d throw it all out if my mom would let me, or at least put it in the attic.”

Steve lays down next to him, a safe distance away. Still, their proximity gives him goose bumps all up one side of his body. He looks up at the ceiling instead of Bucky so as not to make matters worse.

“Thanks for inviting me,” Steve says.

“Thanks for coming.”

“You like bein’ home?”

“Sure. It’s home, ain’t it? College is nice, but I can’t say I don’t miss home.” Steve hears a rustle that he assumes is Bucky turning to look at Steve. He resists the temptation to turn too. It’s bad enough being next to Bucky, but looking into his eyes would be too much right now.

“I missed you,” Bucky says quietly. It sounds like a question.

“I know. You told me already.”

“Steve.”

Steve turns his head and meets those brown eyes with his own. God, he’s beautiful. How many times has he wanted to draw this face, only to stop himself on fear of the drawings being found?

“Will you really write to me?” Bucky asks. He chews his lip like he’s nervous.

“Of course,” Steve answers. “You’re my best friend.”

Bucky smirks at that.

“What?” Steve asks. “What’s funny?”

“After all this, we’re still best friends. Despite the fact that I’m in love with you. It’s just funny.”

Steve waits for Bucky to take it back. He waits for an eternity that only lasts three seconds.

“Sorry.” Bucky tuts at himself. “Tenses are hard.”

“Says the kid with a perfect score on the English exam,” Steve says, and it comes out less mocking and more breathless than he had control over.

Bucky turns onto his back and stares at the ceiling. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

“Am I? Am I your mistake?”

“No.”

Steve’s eyebrows raise.

“That surprise you?” Bucky asks, smirking.

“I guess so. Look what my eyebrows just did.” Amidst Bucky’s laugh, Steve continues, “I really thought, with all that’s happened… you’d take everything back if you could.”

Bucky smiles to himself, like there’s an inside joke Steve’s not in on, before saying, “God, I used to want to. So badly. Long time ago,” he adds, glancing over to Steve to make sure he’s not about to freak out.

Steve doesn’t freak out. Steve asks, “Why?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, of course. He’s too kind.

“Please, I want to know. It won’t hurt my feelings.”

Bucky scoffs. “That’s a huge guess.”

“You didn’t hurt my feelings telling me I used to be your mistake, so what’s it gonna hurt telling me why?”

Bucky stares at Steve and then exhales, laughing. “You got me there. Okay. Here goes.” He readjusts so he’s facing Steve on the bed, on his side. Steve does the same so they’re almost nose to nose.

“I used to wish I’d never met you. I was okay with likin’ boys because there weren’t any boys I liked. I thought I could just be that weird old guy with no wife or kids who adopts a bunch of dogs. But you make my life hard, Stevie, you drive me crazy. Since I met you I’ve got all these inappropriate thoughts, and sleepless nights, and hospital visits, and spending all my money on gas so I can come see you.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “I hated myself for so long after I said what I said back in August. For a little while I thought about… taking the coward’s way out.”

“You don’t mean…”

“I do mean. For a few weeks it was all I could think about. It’s an appealing option, ain’t it, just bowing out from all the trouble you’ve caused. But I couldn’t leave you behind, not without your forgiveness. Not without you.”

Steve tries to reply but his breath hitches and tears fall instead. The idea of Bucky going through all that while Steve was three thousand miles away baking cakes makes him want to tear his hair out.

“I’m doing good these days,” Bucky continues, still staring at the ceiling. “I’m never alone at college, and I crash as soon as I get home, so there’s no room for me to be sad. Honestly, the only time I get to think is when I’m with a girl. Whether they’re trynna talk to me or not. I don’t listen too well when I’m comparing everyone to you.”

He takes Steve’s hand, warm rough fingers rubbing fingertips up his palm before taking hold, leaving a trail of chill behind them.

“I’d be a different person without you, Stevie. I’d be at the same university with the same people, doing the same things, and I’d be miserable. I’d think, is this all there is? Is this as good as life gets? But thanks to you, I know it can be so much better. So no. You’re not my mistake.”

In the midst of Steve’s silence, Bucky reaches across with his free hand to brush a tear away from Steve’s collarbone with his thumb. Steve closes his eyes with the movement, taking a deep breath and letting it out before meeting Bucky’s eye.

“I love you, Stevie,” Bucky says with a sad smile. “I’ll always love you.”

“I love you too,” Steve says, because he does. Bucky’s his best friend, the voice in his head that tells him he’s worthwhile. He loves him.

That doesn’t mean that he’s _in_ love with him, and Bucky gets that, smiles, and says, “I didn’t mean in that way.”

Steve can’t resist asking, “What way do you mean, then?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t wanna misunderstand you. I wanna make sure we’re on the same page. Please,” Steve adds at Bucky’s obvious discomfort.

Bucky rolls onto his back again and says, “Sadly, I am still in love with you.”

Sadly is correct.

Sadly, Steve doesn’t know what to say to this, again. Sadly, Steve wishes he could say it back. Sadly, Steve has no idea what this feeling is that he has in his chest every time he looks at Bucky, the huge swell, the massive beating heart, the blood that rushes round his fingers and toes all too fast. Sadly, all he does is stare until Bucky starts to feel the rejection, again.

“I…” Steve breathes, and when he doesn’t finish, Bucky starts to get up, but Steve pushes him back down and says, “Wait. I need to think about this. You didn’t give me a chance last time. You said it and you left and I ended up hating you instead. Let me just think about it.”

Bucky’s jaw is tight, muscles popping, and Steve can’t take his eyes off it, but this could be for so many reasons. “You shouldn’t have to think about it,” Bucky mumbles, looking off, turning away from Steve so Steve can see the sharp contour of his jaw, muscles continuing their ripple under his skin. “You should just know.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, half-laughing with the incredible over-simplification. “Maybe for other people. Don’t tell me it didn’t take you months to come to terms with loving me.”

“But I always knew.”

Steve takes Bucky’s hand, interlaces their fingers, not only for his own benefit but to reassure Bucky that the situation is not as dire as it looks. “You knew something else, too. You knew you liked boys. I don’t know what I like yet. I need time. I’ve been takin’ care of my mom my whole life, I just need time.”

Bucky nods, pressing his lips together. When he turns to look Steve in the eye, his pupils are so large that his eyes look black. “We could…” He looks so nervous. His palm is sweating inside Steve’s.

Glorious anticipation fills Steve and he takes a moment, swallows, before asking, “We could what?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, just drops his gaze to Steve’s lips. It’s obvious what he’s suggesting from the way he’s looking at Steve, absent-mindedly wetting his lips, warm breath audible, a pink tinge to his cheeks. Even his chest gives it away, rising and falling shallowly at speed. And his fingers, gripping the sheets. And his posture, tense, like he’s waiting for something. And he is. Steve’s answer.

_Kiss me._

That had been his dying wish.

What about now?

Steve thinks about it. He considers closing the gap between himself and Bucky, pressing his own lips to Bucky’s, feeling a new, delicate, intimate kind of friction that he’s never felt before. He thinks of what their hands would do, holding each other’s faces or in each other’s hair or on each other’s bodies. He thinks of the feelings that this would stir in him, the deep desire he would likely develop, tensing muscles he never knew he had. He thinks about opening his mouth to allow moisture, tasting Bucky’s tongue, knowing one more piece of information about his best friend than he ever thought he would learn. He thinks about where it would lead. What would happen next.

But nothing would happen, could happen. It would make everything worse. Bucky is in love with Steve and Steve can’t handle that right now.

“Give me time,” Steve whispers, and all of Bucky’s signs disappear. He flops back on the bed with his elbows behind his head like it’s no big deal, but Steve can see the mass in Bucky’s pants. It’s so incremental that Bucky doesn’t worry about Steve seeing it, but Steve notices.

“Do you want dessert or somethin’?” Bucky asks, feigning so much innocence that Steve bursts out laughing and shoves him off the bed.

* * *

 

That night, Steve sleeps over. He calls his mom first and asks permission, to which she replies, “Your eighteenth birthday was your emancipation, Steve. Treat me now as your peer and equal. And also, don’t talk to strangers and be safe and don’t do drugs.”

Steve has the idea to invite over Natasha, but Bucky pushes back, shaking his head and saying, “She’s not into slumber parties. Says she’d rather an _endless_ slumber than talk about boys and have pillow fights.”

Rolling his eyes, Steve reaches towards the phone again and says, “Come on, I haven’t seen her in ages. I didn’t get to talk to her at Scott’s party. Please?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and says yes. Natasha also says yes, so long as they “keep the chit chat to a minimum”. Steve replies, “Strictly business, got it. See you soon, colleague.”

Natasha’s arrival is marked by a slamming car door and a loud, guttural yell of Russian, with Natasha replying, “Keep your voice down, Uncle! You don’t watch the news?”

The car skids away and Natasha nods to Bucky and Steve, who are waiting outside the door. They nod back.

There’s a few moments of awkwardness before Natasha opens her backpack and pulls out a bottle of vodka. “This is Russian party, no?” she says in an accent as thick as her uncle’s.

“I’m not allowed to drink in the house,” Bucky confesses, looking behind him. “I’m not really allowed to drink at _all_.”

“You’re eighteen.”

“Try telling my mom that.”

“So we don’t drink in the house.”

“Where, then?”

“Let’s go to the beach,” Steve pipes in.

Natasha and Bucky exchange a confusing look. “What?” Steve asks, looking between them.

Slowly, Bucky nods. “Okay. Let’s go.”

They pile into his car, Nat riding shotgun and Steve in the back because she’s faster than him. He asks, “How’s it going, Nat?” and she just laughs a little, so Steve resigns himself to the weirdly silent trip.

They pull up to a place near the ocean, under a bridge. Bucky pulls up the handbrake and stares out the windshield for a good ten seconds before Steve can’t take it and says, “Is this a party or a funeral?”

Bucky breaks and laughs, turns around and slaps Steve on the knee before getting out of the car. And immediately getting back in.

“Fuckin’ Christ, it’s cold!” Bucky cries through his teeth. “Stevie, pass me my sweater, would you? And my jacket? They’re in the trunk.”

Steve reaches back, starts passing things through, and Bucky adds, “There’s like twenty spare coats in there, grab as many as you can for yourself.”

“Why you got so many coats back here?” Steve asks as he loads himself up with five, passing two to Natasha.

“Because of you, dumbass. I’m not makin’ that mistake again.”

“What mistake?” Steve asks, but Bucky’s already out of the car. “What mistake?” he repeats, to Natasha.

“He thinks he almost killed you,” she says. “On your birthday. With the cold.”

Steve puts on an extra coat.

He heads out of the car to watch Bucky spread the blanket on the sand and sit, cross-legged. It’s cute, when he does that. With his hair fluffed up by the wind like this, he looks so young. Steve sits next to him, Natasha puts the bottle in the middle, and Bucky grabs it.

Steve opens his mouth to protest, to ask Bucky if that’s really the greatest idea, but Natasha asks him, “How is work going?”

“Oh, same old, same old.”

“He’s got a groupie,” Bucky adds.

Nat raises her eyebrows. “Oh?”

“She likes his sponge.”

“ _Oh_?”

Steve waves his hands. “It’s not like that. It’s a good bakery.”

“She comes in every day.”

“Not _every_ day. I haven’t seen her in a little while.”

“I scared her off, didn’t I?”

“Now,” Nat asks, turning to Steve, “what does this woman look like?”

Steve feels his face going red, and Nat laughs. “That means she’s attractive,” she says.

“Well, yeah.”

“You think she likes you?”

“No way. A dame like that and a guy like me?”

“Steve.” Nat leans forwards and grabs his hand. “Two life lessons for you. One, never call a woman a dame. We don’t actually like that, as much as movies would have you believe. Two, you are handsome and kind and smart. Do not undersell yourself.”

Steve smiles. “Thanks. That’s really nice of you.”

“Nice?” she scoffs. “I am not nice. I am only truthful. Bucky,” she says to him, “let some of us have a turn, ey?”

She takes the vodka from him and has a few sips before passing it to Steve, who tilts it against his closed lips and pretends to swallow.

“I saw that!” Natasha cries, throwing up her hands. “That was no drink!”

“What?” Steve says, defensive, holding the bottle to his right where Bucky takes it from him. “Yes it was. Ooh, it burns.”

“Ooh, it burns!” she mocks, rolling her eyes and pulling a beer bottle from her pocket. “I knew you wouldn’t drink, so I brought you this.”

“You know me,” Steve says fondly, cracking open the top with her bottle opener and taking a real drink.

“What’s her name?” Bucky asks as he passes the vodka to Natasha. “The bakery woman.”

“I don’t know. What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

“I don’t know. Wait,” he says as Steve starts laughing, “I do know. It’s Doris.”

“I thought you said her name was Dolores,” says Natasha.

Bucky slaps his head into his hands. “Whatever.”

“I’m not even going to ask,” Natasha says, sharing a look with Steve. “Your decisions are yours to make, Bucky, even if they are fucking weird.”

She goes to take another drink, but frowns. “It’s empty.” Bucky starts to giggle.

Steve curses himself for his stupidity. Bucky had always been a liability with a bottle, and the instinct had been kicked out of Steve by time. The thought occurs to him that maybe college has improved Bucky’s tolerance, but this is quickly vanquished by Bucky’s slurred cry of, “Let’s play spin the bottle!”

Natasha and Steve both snap their heads round to look at him, then each other.

“Is he drunk?” Nat asks.

“Yes,” Steve replies.

“Shit.”

“Yes.”

“C’mon!” Bucky puts the bottle down in the middle of them. “We’re already sittin’ in a circle!”

“Circles aren’t always good,” Steve says, trying to make his voice soothing as he tries to snatch the bottle from Bucky’s hand. “What about pentagrams?”

“Debatable,” Nat mutters, and Steve can’t help a laugh.

“See! You laughed! That means you’re into it!” Bucky takes the bottle from Steve easier than Steve would like to admit, and places it back in the middle of the circle. “Who’s first?” He looks between Steve and Nat like one of them will actually volunteer.

When he’s met with only icy glares, he shrugs and says, “Guess it’s me,” and spins.

It lands on Bucky.

“I’ll spin again,” Bucky says, reaching out, but Natasha slaps his hand out the way and says, “No, those aren’t the rules.”

“What?” Bucky asks, confused. Steve notices that Bucky’s drunken confused face is like his regular confused face except with more dribble.

“She’s right,” Steve chips in, smirking. “You gotta kiss yourself.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and with much showmanship, gives himself a big kiss on the back of his hand. “Can we get back to the game now?”

“Nope,” Steve says, grinning now, “you gotta do better than that. You gotta _mean_ it.”

“Really get in there,” says Natasha.

Bucky squints at his hand. “Okay, you’re in for a treat.” And he closes his eyes and starts making out with his hand.

Steve can’t help but giggle as Bucky moans and uses tongue liberally. “Oh baby,” Bucky moans, cradling the hand close to his chest, “I think I love you.”

“A man and his right hand,” Natasha says. “A timeless classic.”

“Are we done now?” Bucky asks, his tone almost business-like, looking seriously at Steve. “Can we get back to the game?”

Steve opens his mouth to ask why in all hell Bucky is so damn desperate to play this stupid game, why the hell he wants to kiss Natasha or himself so much, but before he makes a sound he realises what a stupid question this is.

Bucky is in love with him. Bucky is drunk and rejected. Bucky is confident and sad and beautiful. Bucky hasn’t heard no before. Bucky wants to kiss him.

His first reaction is worry. Is Bucky okay? Healthy, emotionally stable people don’t act like this, waving the empty bottle of wine in front of Steve’s face and goading him into a childish game.

His second reaction is flattery. Hearing Bucky is in love with him is nothing new. Seeing Bucky desperate for him is something else, something that stirs the tiny part of Steve which contains the ego.

His third reaction is fear. What if it lands on him?

His fourth reaction is intrigue. What if it lands on him?

His fifth reaction is cut off by the fact that he’s taking way too long to respond to Bucky, and Bucky has spun the bottle anyway.

It lands on Natasha.

“I’m not playing,” she says.

“You can’t play with two people,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes for the hundredth time and shifting slightly towards her. “That’s practically marriage.”

“Are you going to force me to kiss you?”

“No.”

“You expect me to kiss you of my own free will?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Bucky says, grinning, putting on his silkiest, most charming voice, before clamping his mouth shut. Natasha narrows her eyes at him and looks over to Steve. It’s clear they’re hiding something.

Before Steve can ask, Natasha grabs Bucky’s collar and presses their mouths together for a brief kiss.

But Steve barely pays this any attention. What are they hiding from him? When have they kissed before?

He looks down; Natasha has spun and it’s pointing towards Steve.

“I don’t want to play,” Steve mutters, starting to stand up, but Bucky grabs his shirt and pulls him back down onto the sand.

“Stevie, where you goin’?”

“Nowhere,” Steve says, trying to get up again, but Bucky pulls him down.

“Why you gettin’ up?”

“I just want a walk,” he says, and this time Bucky lets him stand, and then stands himself.

“I’ll come with you.”

“That’s alright.”

“I wanna come.”

“Stay here with Natasha, Bucky-“

“Why do you wanna be on your own, huh-“

“Get off me,” Steve says, because Bucky’s grabbed Steve’s shirt, a bully hold that usually tells Steve he’s about to be punched.

Bucky lets him go. He steps backwards, seeming to sense that he’s gone too far, that something’s wrong here. His eyes close and he brings the heels of his palms into them. His hair sticks straight upwards with the thick salty sea air.

Behind him, Natasha stands, puts her hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Bucky shakes his head without lowering his hands. He whispers something to Natasha that Steve can’t make out. Natasha just nods and steps backwards.

Something like fear holds Steve’s stomach in its stone fist, but it’s more than that, it twists him and makes him feel sick. Bucky lowers his hands and they stare into each other’s eyes, Bucky’s eyes red-rimmed and black in the darkness.

“I didn’t mean to blurt that out,” Bucky says evenly. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you skirting around?” Steve demands, voice raised and fists balled.

“I really want us to be friends again, and we’re doin’ so well-“

“Bucky, for God’s sake-“

“It’s nothin’, really, you’ll laugh-“

“For God’s sake, tell me!” Steve shouts, and Bucky blurts it out of shock more than anything else.

  
“We slept together, okay! For God’s sake.”

Steve laughs. That’s nothing. They’ve been friends for years.

It’s when Bucky frowns at Steve’s response that he starts thinking about it. Bucky told Steve he was a virgin. It was when Steve was in hospital, and he said he didn’t want to die a virgin, and Bucky said he didn’t either, and that had made Steve feel better about the prospect, because if someone as cool as Bucky was still a virgin then it wasn’t lame that he was, too.

That was in July. Bucky had been fucking girls since college in August, he wouldn’t need Natasha for that now. So it had to be after they’d talked about being virgins and before Bucky left…

When Steve was laying dying, fighting for every breath, Bucky was off losing his virginity to someone he wasn’t even attracted to.

“When?” he asks, to confirm.

Bucky starts getting nervous, no longer frowning in confusion. “Start of August. You were…” He trails off, because of course, Steve remembers.

“When?” Steve asks again.

“It was, uh, the night before…” Again he trails off. Again Steve remembers.

He looks to Natasha, standing beside the car, smoking a cigarette, trying not to get involved. He imagines her hands touching Bucky’s skin, imagines him kissing her full lips, maybe touching her breasts, depending on how much Bucky’d felt like lying to himself. His eyes linger on her neck, which Bucky must have kissed; her waist, which he must have held; her hair, which he must have buried his hands inside.

Inside.

He closes his eyes at the thought, the image.

_“Stevie, I’m in love with you.”_

The fist gives another twist, and he realises that it’s not fear. It’s jealousy.

“I have to go.”

“What?” Bucky darts to him and plants his hands on Steve’s shoulders. “Hey. Woah. Don’t just leave.”

“I should be at home.”

“Your mom is fine.” Bucky is shaking Steve’s shoulders and doesn’t seem to realise that he’s doing it. His big big brown eyes are wide and so beautiful, and Steve tries to close his eyes against them but he can’t.

Is this? Is this the moment it changes?

He can’t breathe. It’s been so long coming but he supposes he can’t deny it anymore, not with the lead in his stomach, not with the bile in his mouth, not with Bucky’s hands causing shockwaves through his veins.

It’s December 1937 and the Chinese Nationalist and Communist parties have agreed to co-operate against the Japanese. Thirty-five thousand Republican supporters have been murdered in Spain. Adolf Hitler has announced his plans for European expansion. Again, he is reported to not be pursuing war.

Sodomy is a felony punished by lengthy imprisonment, hard labour, and castration.

Steve has spent eighteen and a half years struggling to stay alive. It’s a hard habit to break.

“Forget it,” he says to Bucky, whispering, for it’s the biggest secret there is.

“Forget it?” Bucky whispers back, tears in his eyes, his body curved inwards like he wants nothing more than to press himself against Steve. “Do you wanna forget it?”

“Of course.”

Bucky flinches, visibly swallows, but Steve cups his cheek in his palm and Bucky meets his eye again.

It’s a self preservation thing. He wishes he had enough instinct in him to steer clear of danger.

But he can’t forget. He remembers. Of course he remembers. How could he forget? It’s the remembering that’s the problem.

He’d cried when Bucky got into Cambridge. His last request had been a single kiss. Those events are always on his mind, so much that he’s successfully managed to convince himself that that isn’t who he is. Those were moments of desperation, of sheer panic, of hysteria and fear. He was losing his best friend, he was losing his life. He knew how Bucky felt about him, it was obvious. He’s convinced himself that crying and begging for a single kiss were reflex moves to respectively get Bucky to stay, and make him feel better.

But…

There’s nothing wrong with the way Bucky feels about Steve. It’s unlawful, but that’s bullshit. There’s nothing wrong with it. But the way Steve might feel about Bucky… that’s something else. That’s _his_ problem. There are different rules when it’s applied to him. 

Maybe it’s because he’s already struggled enough. Maybe it’s because in his mind, Bucky can do no wrong. Maybe it’s because of these things that he’s lived in denial for so long while knowing full well that he was living in denial.

And that’s when he closes his eyes and, finally, finally, finally, lets it hit him.

Steve knew he had misremembered Bucky even when Bucky was standing in front of him. He had understood and pretended he hadn’t. He’d seen the checklist of everything he ever wanted for himself and seen more items on the list than he’d anticipated. He’d wanted to be a child and wanted Bucky to be an adult, when they’d both been in between. It had been sad and desperate and long, they’d laughed too often and referenced inside jokes constantly to forge a bond they both needed. But Steve is glad that Bucky had been the one around to fill that hole in him. If it had been anyone less kind in that nurse’s office, god knows where Steve would be now. His mind had been pliable and willing to follow and Bucky’s the only person on earth who wouldn’t take advantage of that. And Bucky. Where would Bucky be without Steve? Prison, the army, a graveyard. Virtual synonyms, none of them good enough.

It brings tears, actual tears to Steve’s eyes to think of Bucky as a human being. As a laundry list it is underwhelming; kind, sad, warm, scared, trying as hard as he can. This is how he’s unwillingly thought of Bucky the whole time, trying to put a theory to the evidence that Bucky lets slip between the cracks. But as a human being, as a mind and spirit and shining eyes, as sore muscles and bad-smelling sweat and flaky scalp and pyjamas, as a cracking smile with not-white teeth and coffee breath, a bank of false memories and hindsight and things that pop into his head with certain smells, of things he thinks about himself that he promises to change and never does. The reality of this person living inside Bucky’s body hits him and he realises, whole-heartedly with a blinding rush of blood and a twinge in his stomach, that he has been in love the whole time.

This is what Bucky has been trying to tell him. _Do you know me? Do you know me?_ He had always asked that question. _Do you see who I am? Can you see it underneath my skin?_ Bucky cannot see the skin. Bucky looks out into the world and sees in first person, stands looking beautiful on a hill and sees only the sky in front of him. Bucky stands in front of Steve and Steve sees the grey eyes, the high cheekbones, the full lips, and the playful intelligence that appears with the sum of the parts, while Bucky looks back at him and exists only as a train of thought. Even his words are not who he is; Bucky has never been good with words, at expressing himself or compressing everything, and for good reason. To compress Bucky is to reduce him, small enough so he can fit into words. He is ineffable. Like an advert for perfume, it just can’t be done.

He loves Bucky, as a best friend, as a soul mate, as a saviour. But he is also in love. His heart hasn’t belonged to him in over a year. His thoughts have always wandered to the gravity of Bucky’s burning sun, orbited but never landed, for to do so would be to catch fire.

He’s on fire now. His mind blazes with everything he feels, from head to toe. Blood rushes around his body as he allows himself to think about Bucky’s eyes, his lips, his way of pushing back his hair, his broad shoulders and lean muscle, the trail of hairs he’s pretended not to notice when Bucky’s shirt rides up. He thinks about new things, about kissing Bucky, touching his body, raking a hand through that thick chocolate hair and gripping hard enough to make Bucky gasp. His pants grow marginally tighter as he allows his mind to caress every inch.

Under his palm he feels tears slip down Bucky’s face and opens his eyes.

Bucky is wide-eyed, confused, betrayed and apologetic, beautiful and individual and godly. His shirt is white and his pants are brown and he’s not wearing any shoes right now, and his bare feet are paler than the rest of him.

If he wanted to, Steve could kiss him right now. It would be as easy as breathing, and Steve has been holding his breath for so long now.

But the timing isn’t right. They’re in public, they’re criminals. And they’re not alone.

Steve lifts his other hand and cups the other side of Bucky’s face too, holding him, brushing the tears away with his thumbs. He smiles, putting as much love into it as he can. “I’ll stay,” he says.

At these words, Bucky breaks down. He grabs Steve, pulls him into a hug, starts sobbing into his hair, inhaling huge breaths that threaten to crush him. Steve, confused, holds him, and keeps holding him until he understands that this has been plaguing Bucky for months. He thought Steve would hate him for what he did with Natasha. He thought Steve would leave him.

“I’ll never leave you,” Steve mumbles, absent-mindedly, and Bucky pulls him even closer, plants covert kisses on the top of Steve’s head.

Pressed against Bucky’s chest, Steve locks eyes with Natasha. Her expression is as unreadable as always, but missing its usual level of disinterest. At his attention she turns and sits on the back bumper of the car.

Bucky takes deep breaths, shuddering against Steve, clinging on to him with the tips of his fingers like he’s about to slip away. He brings his lips close to Steve’s ear, so close that Steve can feel his hot breath that sends tingles through his body, and he says, “I love you.”

He says it as a reminder.

And Steve says, “I love you too.”

Bucky pulls back and shakes his head. “I told you that’s not what I mean.”

“That’s not what I mean either.”

Bucky frowns, his mouth twists up, he’s trying to work it out. “What…”

“Not here.” Steve’s eyes flash to Natasha, and then the road behind them, which is deserted now but will not always stay that way. “Not now.”

Bucky’s still processing, so Steve takes his hand in between them and squeezes it, checks around them before pressing it to his lips, his eyes never leaving Bucky’s.

“Here,” Bucky chokes out, his eyes filling again with tears, wide and awed and disbelieving, as he thinks through Steve’s words and wonders if this is really happening. “Now.”

Steve laughs breathlessly, and Bucky laughs too, grins and laughs and smiles and laughs like he’s the luckiest fucking guy in the world, the ocean dancing in his brown eyes as he pulls Steve towards him, but Steve pushes back and says, “We’ll be seen,” and Bucky rolls his eyes and wraps his fingers in Steve’s hair and smiles and smiles and says, “Kiss me.”

And Steve does.

He kisses him.

Soft and nervous and gentle. It’s his first kiss.

Bucky’s lips aren’t soft, or rough. Steve’s press against them, moves his head to the side so there’s friction. Electricity runs through the point where they touch.

Frozen they stay like this. Steve doesn’t dare move. It feels so good, nothing can get better than this, until Bucky kisses him again, and again, and it’s the same feeling but it bursts anew every time.

Oh my god, Steve thinks. Oh my god.

If his left arm didn’t feel as tingly and good as the rest of his body, he’d think he was having a heart attack.

His whole hands cling to Bucky’s waist and bumps their bodies together, and their teeth clash and they both laugh about it and keep kissing. It’s freedom, so much freedom, he can touch Bucky after all this time, touch his hair and face and neck and under his shirt, his hips, his skin, feels moles under his fingers he never knew were there, feels hair at the bottom of Bucky’s back and feels where it leads, too.

It’s so obvious that he’s in love. It’s so, so, so obvious. Steve feels like he’s the last one to know.

They kiss and they kiss and they kiss and Steve’s heart just… explodes, and keeps exploding, and doesn’t stop.

Until someone clears their throat.

Bucky doesn’t notice but Steve pulls back. Natasha is staring at them from the back of the car. “People are coming,” she says.

Steve looks behind her and sees two figures in the dark, not yet lit by the streetlamps. Men, middle aged, likely drunk. They haven’t looked over yet, definitely haven’t seen anything.

Steve steps backwards, a safe distance from Bucky, and though it’s a wake up call, a splash of cold water to the face, a reality check… he just can’t stop smiling. Bucky looks at him, grinning, looking like he’s trying not to laugh, and this makes Steve crack up and soon they’re both laughing and god, it feels amazing! To laugh! He hasn’t got a care in the fucking world. It’s the perfect moment. It’s the happiest he’s ever been. The two men notice absolutely nothing and Bucky and Steve laugh and laugh and cling to each other and as soon as the men turn the corner, they’re kissing again.

Bucky whispers right in Steve’s ear, “We should get in the car.”

Steve looks over to Natasha, but she’s gone.

He opens his mouth to ask Bucky about it, but he’s being pulled by his hand towards the car, shoved into the back seat, and covered with Bucky’s body, leaning over him, knocking the air from his lungs, predatory and dominant and confident, and Steve can’t help but think how many women Bucky’s been with, how it was probably the back of this very car where he lost his virginity to Natasha, but then he thinks, who cares? It’s me he wants. It’s me he’s always wanted. And it’s him I want.

They kiss and they kiss and they kiss, and it’s pitch black by the time they stop. The whole of Steve’s body is covered by the ghost of Bucky’s lips and he falls asleep with Bucky’s head in his lap, his fingers in Bucky’s hair, his heart in Bucky’s hands.

* * *

 

_Spring, 1933_

Fourteen-year-old Bucky Barnes sits in History class. The boys talk about Miss Hill when she’s not looking and stare whenever she bends over. The next time she drops something, Bucky helps her pick it up.

“No fair, Barnes,” Tony whispers to him across the aisle between their desks. “That would have been a prime view.”

“Stop objectifying women, you asshole,” Bucky whispers back, and Tony glowers at him.

“What are you two talking about?” Miss Hill asks with her usual stern expression as she turns from the blackboard.

“Nothing, miss,” Tony says, practically drooling from the mouth.

“Oh really?” Miss Hill asks, and looks to a space directly behind Bucky. “Bruce, did you hear what they were talking about?”

Bucky jumps as a voice behind him speaks. “Tony was saying that he likes, uh, looking at you when you bend over. James was saying that he shouldn’t objectify women.”

“Well,” Miss Hill says, flushing slightly red with what Bucky would guess as both embarrassment and anger, “detention for you, Mr Stark.”

Tony groans and punches Bucky on the arm, and Miss Hill turns back to the blackboard and continues to teach them about the Declaration of Independence.

Bucky twists round in his seat to say thanks to the kid behind him, but his breath catches in his throat as he looks at him. Curly black hair and tanned skin. Bucky is staring. He catches himself quickly and says, “Thanks for havin’ my back, Brian.”

The kid looks embarrassed. “It’s Bruce.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Bucky gives him a smile before turning back around and putting his head in his hands. He must just be tired. Maybe he can squeeze in a quick nap before fifth period.

“James, wake up, or you’ll join your misogynistic friend here in detention.”

When the bell rings for lunch, he waits until Bruce gets up and follows him out into the hallway, flagging him down with a tap on the shoulder. Bruce turns to him, looking confused.

“James?”

“Wanted to say thanks, again.”

“It’s nothing. I just did what Miss Hill asked me to do.”

Bruce tries to turn around and keep walking, but Bucky panics and grabs him by the arm. He lets go as soon as he realises what he’s done.

“Sorry.”

“Did you want something?” Bruce asks, and Bucky would take this as belligerence if Bruce didn’t look so damn embarrassed.

“Do you wanna go get lunch?”

“With you?”

“Yeah. We can be friends.”

Bruce frowns. “I don’t have any friends.” His eyes widen and he starts to backtrack, but Bucky interrupts him.

“It’s fine. Neither do I.”

“Yes you do. You’re popular. I know your name, _and_ your nickname, and I don’t even know you.”

“Well, you better stop callin’ me James, then,” Bucky grins, and steers Bruce towards the cafeteria.

They sit down with their sandwiches and Bruce tells Bucky he wants to be a physicist, and Bucky tries to pronounce that and they have a good laugh about how much he fails. Of course, Bucky can pronounce it, he’s not five years old. He just wants to make Bruce laugh. Must be his weird need to impress people.

After school, they walk home together, and Bucky invites Bruce in for dinner. They have a lovely meal of beef and potatoes, and Winifred fusses over Bruce like she does all the other friends he brings home. They go up to Bucky’s room and look at his model planes and Bucky keeps staring at Bruce, wanting to know whether he likes everything. He notices the colour of Bruce’s eyes and the length of his eyelashes. His heart is beating faster. That’s never happened before. It feels like he has a disease. It’s scary. But it’s exciting. And confusing. But good.

He insists on walking Bruce home. Outside his door, he thinks about all the movies he’s seen where the boy walks the girl to the door, and then the girl stands there staring at the boy, waiting for him to kiss her.

Bruce is standing there, staring at him.

Bucky kisses him.

Bruce steps back, gives him a weird look, and shuts the door in his face.

The next day in class, Bruce isn’t there.

Bucky never sees him again.

He doesn’t know what homosexuality is until he’s fifteen and he comes across it in a book. No one ever mentions it. He doesn’t dare ask anyone about it. He’s read what happens to those found guilty. He thanks God that Bruce’s parents didn’t turn him in. He tries to live his life as normal, and cries himself to sleep every night.

It isn’t until he saves Natasha from a fight on a street corner – “This man thought I was a prostitute – my skirt is not THAT short!” – and falls in with her crowd of misfits that he starts to think that maybe he can live his life like this, that it doesn’t need to be a death sentence unless he makes it one. Age sixteen, willing to spend the rest of his days repressing his desires and resigned to silence, untrusting and hard hearted.

He starts to find his nights are longer and so are his days, and he’s tired, always tired, and so much thinner than he used to be. His mother asks him why he doesn’t bring friends round anymore. His grades climb to an all time high as he wiles away his nights. He hits baseballs as hard as he can and runs until he can’t breathe, and all for nothing, all to be met with his ceiling and another sleepless night, never truly asleep, never truly awake.

Until--

_“Well, there’s this one I read in the paper the other day. Uh. This teacher is doing math and she asks her students, what if I took a potato and I cut it in half, and then in half again, and then in half one more time? What would I have?”_

_“Uh. Quarters. No! Eighths. Right? … I’m bad at math.”_

_“Eighths is right. But you wanna know what the student said?”_

_“Boy, do I.”_

_“Potato salad.”_

He’d laughed harder than he had in three years. He kept the blue eyed boy around under the pretence that he was funny, that Bucky needed someone funny, but that barely fooled himself. Truth is, that joke in the nurse’s office was the moment Bucky finally woke up.

* * *

 

They don’t sleep for hours.

It’s not nearly as much kissing as Bucky would have thought, seeing as he’s been trying to kiss Steve for so long. They touch, they rest their palms on each other’s stomachs and Bucky draws little circles in Steve’s hair while Steve wonders aloud why Bucky is so hairless despite having hit puberty a lot harder.

It’s talking. Hours and hours of talking.

Lying in Bucky’s bed on their sides, gazing into each other’s eyes.

The first thing Bucky asks is, “What took you so long?”

Steve shakes his head and replies, “I can’t put it into words. I guess I just took all the platonic parts and channelled them into friendship, and all the other parts, I just locked them away.”

“Sounds unhealthy.”

“Freud would have a field day.”

Bucky laughs and Steve smirks. It’s such a self-satisfied smirk, the one Steve does when he knows a joke has landed. Bucky’s been dying to kiss it away from him, so he does. He kisses the smirk and it turns into a smile, a big broad sunshine smile.

“I love you,” says Steve, and Bucky’s heart jumps. It’s unbelievable. After all this time, was this to be a happy ending?

There’s a knock on the door and they spring apart as Bucky’s mom enters, frowning in her pyjamas, her hair stuck up on one side of her head. She squints and asks, “Can you boys keep it down? I’ve got work at 8.”

“Sure thing, ma.”

“Sorry, Ms Barnes.”

Too tired to correct Steve’s formality, she just nods and closes the door behind her.

Steve shoots a warning glance at Bucky. “We have to be more careful,” he whispers. “It’s not over. You know, all the reasons why this…”

“No, it’s not. But whispering makes it more fun, don’t it?” Bucky whispers back, grinning, grabbing Steve’s face in both of his hands and kissing him. He whispers, “I love you,” and Steve whispers back, “Damn, that _was_ fun.”

Bucky has been in love with Steve for so long that he figured he couldn’t love him anymore. But he can. It’s a feeling he’s never felt before, the reserves hidden away in the centre of his heart that he’d never cracked before. It’s not desire; he’s felt desire. It’s not pleasure; he’s felt pleasure. It’s not love; he’s felt love, more than anyone.

It’s belonging.

“You know,” Steve whispers, pulling away for a moment, “you have a girlfriend. And don’t say you’re not exclusive, because that’s not good enough for me.”

“Can’t we talk about this later?” Bucky groans, leaning in for another kiss, but Steve places his hand on Bucky’s chest. He sighs and rolls over onto his back, pulling Steve onto his chest. “I’ll end it. It’s not serious.”

“Why do you have a girlfriend anyway?” Steve mumbles, and if it weren’t such a serious situation Bucky would kiss him all over because his jealousy is so damn cute.

“Loneliness. After that night with Natasha I thought, why not? What’s the difference if I do it one time or a hundred times?”

“By it you mean…”

Bucky squirms, uncomfortable. “Yeah.”

“It’s ok. I get it. I would have done the same thing if I were you.”

“If you were me?”

“You know, if I looked like that.”

Bucky sits up. Steve’s head topples off his chest and he rolls onto his side. “What?” he asks.

“What do you mean, if you looked like me?”

Steve raises his eyebrows like the answer is obvious. “You know. Hot.”

“I’m hot?”

The eyebrows grow ever higher. “Of course you are.”

“And you think you’re _not_ hot?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Look at me. I’m a toothpick.”

“A toothpick with gorgeous eyes.”

Steve blushes and looks away. “Thanks.”

“Seriously. You’re gorgeous. You could get any amount of slutty English girls.”

Steve looks back, only to frown at Bucky. “Don’t talk about women like that. You know it’s not right.”

“Sorry. I forget. You know I don’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah, I know. Just, if they’re sluts, then you’re a slut too.”

Bucky grins. “I like that.”

“I _don’t._ ”

Bucky takes Steve’s face in his hands, dragging his thumbs across the almost-white skin. “You know I was just trynna fill a hole that only you could fill.”

“I know,” Steve whispers. “But you understand that it has to stop, right? You’ll end it with her?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you write her a letter or something?”

“It’s not actually a _relationship_ that we’re in, you know, she won’t care if I’m with someone else.”

“It still makes me uncomfortable.”

“Okay then, sure, I’ll write a letter. All I ever wanted was you,” Bucky breathes, his lips millimetres from Steve’s skin, breath making all the little hairs stand on end. “I’ve got you now and I’m not gonna let you go.”

Steve huffs a little laugh, and it comes out all nervous due to Bucky’s proximity. “’Til the end of the line?”

“To the end of the line.”

And Bucky kisses him, hard, his mind full of promises.

* * *

 

Christmas comes and goes as Christmas always does. Bucky and his extended family have a huge turkey and exchange toys and booze and even a blender, and Bucky falls asleep under the Christmas tree. Steve and Sarah eat a modest chicken and spend the day reading Steinbeck’s newest novel _Of Mice and Men_. They both cry at the end and fall asleep on the sofa with the book sandwiched between them.

Boxing Day, there’s a knock on Steve’s door at 8a.m. Of course, it’s just a dream. No one would call this early on Boxing Day. He drifts back off when the knocking comes again.

“Steve, get the door!”

“Why do I have to get it?”

“Why do you think I gave birth to you? For lie-ins!”

His mother’s weirdly specific comeback drives Steve out of bed. He puts on his fluffy robe and grumbles the whole way to the front door.

“Merry Christmas!” Bucky yells as soon as he’s visible, a huge smile on his face and a present in his hands like he’s Santa Clause himself.

Steve rolls his eyes but can’t help smiling back, going on his tiptoes to kiss Bucky on the mouth.

“Mom asleep?” Bucky mumbles.

“Mmhm.”

“Ooh.” Bucky kisses him hard, wrapping his hand up into Steve’s hair. “Convenient.”

Steve tries to pull him closer but the present gets in the way, wrapped up in a ridiculous and Bucky-esque red and green bow.

“What’s in the box?”

Bucky waggles his eyebrows and pushes past Steve, nudging open the door to his bedroom.

“Make yourself at home,” Steve says as he follows him.

When he gets inside Bucky is sitting on the bed, legs folded under him, present in front of him, looking absolutely adorable with his big childish grin and his repetition of “open it open it open it open it!”

Steve can’t help but relent, shutting the door softly behind him before jumping on the bed and tearing open the wrapping paper to reveal –

“Wow,” Steve says as he holds up the hole-ridden, bright green ball of wool. “It’s, uh…”

Bucky grins at him. “It’s a scarf.”

“It is?”

“Yes.”

“Did you _make_ this?”

“Yes!”

“That is really… really… cute.”

Bucky leans forwards and wraps the haphazard bundle of wool around Steve’s neck. With all the easy confidence in the world he says, “Well, it’s terrible.”

“No…” Steve starts, trying to wrap the scarf around a second time but finding only a knotted end. “It’s… warm, at least, which is what scarves are _for_.”

“Thought that counts, right?”

“Yeah, and while we’re on the subject…”

Steve pulls out his own present for Bucky, a slim book with the word ‘CAMBRIDGE’ emblazoned on the front. Before Bucky can say anything, Steve blurts, “I wanted to get a travel guide so you could talk me through all the places you go to, but it turns out it’s for Cambridge, Massachusetts instead, and it was Christmas Eve by the time I realised… why are you laughing?”

“You’re so cute!” Bucky cries as he leans forwards and pecks Steve on the lips. Steve grabs him and pulls him in again for another kiss, which makes Bucky repeat his words of, “You’re so cute, Stevie,” over and over again until they’re giggling and kissing all at the same time.

When Steve pulls Bucky to him and they start kissing properly, right on top of the shitty beautiful scarf, Steve opens his eyes and sees that Bucky’s eyes are open too.  “What?” Steve asks, blushing and leaning back.

“We’re in your bed.”

“So? You’ve been in my bed before, remember?”

“This is how I always wanted to be in it.” If Steve didn’t know better he’d think Bucky’s eyes were welling up. “I’m just so goddamn happy.” He bursts into a grin and Steve squints at the brightness of it all, of Bucky looking out of his body and into Steve’s eyes and loving him so fiercely that he can’t control it.

“I love—”

“Ssh,” Bucky interrupts, pressing his finger to Steve’s lips and looking towards the door. “Listen.”

Shuffling and groaning and the rattle of a wheelchair tells Steve that his mother is awake.

“Steve?” she calls, slowly getting closer to his door. “Are you going to make me breakfast, or are you going to be a disappointment for a son?”

As the door handle begins to turn, Bucky sits upright so fast that he falls off the back of the bed. Sarah stares at the scene, both boys looking up at her with perfectly innocent faces, a book and a ball of wool on the bed. She smiles, says, “I’m thinking pancakes,” and closes the door behind her.

Bucky meets Steve’s eyes. When Steve begins to laugh hysterically, Bucky just rolls his eyes and says, “You weren’t laughin’ when _my_ mom walked in.”

They meet Sarah at the kitchen table, and Steve starts to make breakfast. Sarah and Bucky make idle conversation about their Christmases. Sarah is about to make a sarcastic remark about where her present is when Bucky pulls out an immaculately wrapped gift, which turns out to be a record from one of her favourite singers. She goes bright red and Steve turns around to say, “What, lost for words? It’s about time.” Sarah just gets up and gives Bucky a brief hug, mumbles thank you in an embarrassed way, and sits back down.

With pancakes in front of them, everything goes a lot easier, because no one has a chance to speak. Since working at the bakery Steve has become an excellent cook, Sarah says: “Not that he makes any of their wares, but he inhales so much flour at that place I’m surprised he hasn’t turned into a pancake himself.”

Steve pours an elaborate amount of maple syrup on his pancakes, and practically inhales his stack. When he looks up, finished, both Sarah and Bucky are beaming at him.

“What?” he asks, self-conscious.

“It’s so nice to see you eating so much,” Bucky says, and Sarah nods.

“Well, it’s nice to see you two agreeing for once,” Steve counters, embarrassed.

After breakfast they bundle Steve up and set out through the snow, Bucky pushing Sarah’s wheelchair as Steve is nowhere near strong enough to push it in the snow. He watches Bucky, marvelling at how strong those arms must be underneath his jacket, how pink his face is in the cold and how easily he talks and laughs with Steve’s mother… butterflies play in his stomach and he can’t stop smiling. It’s like next year’s Christmas has come three-hundred and sixty-four days early.

Steve observes as girls stare at Bucky, giggling in their groups at the handsome youth of him, the obvious beauty. He observes as Bucky doesn’t even look their way, barely even notices them, and is jealous for a split second that this is such a common occurrence for Bucky. But then he realises it’s because Bucky is staring at him instead, smiling and staring like the most obsessed schoolgirl. Steve decides to help him push the wheelchair, and if he places his hand on Bucky’s in the process, well, that’s innocent, isn’t it?

* * *

> _Dear Steve,_
> 
> _I have arrived home and safe, though you know better than anyone that it is not my real home. The airplane was loud and I thought three separate times that we were going to crash. I almost thought about writing a letter that they could find on my body, one for Sally, telling her how much I love her and thought about her in those last moments – but I’m sure she would have already known._
> 
> _It is horribly cold here, but thankfully the English spend all their winter time drinking in pubs, and that’s what I’m doing too. Have you heard of Guinness? You must have. Well, I’m bringing some back in the summer because it’s amazing and you have to try it, and I’m sure you’ll hate it._
> 
> _Dolores received my letter all those weeks ago and is now sleeping with my roommate. Fine with me._
> 
> _Hope Nat is well. Let me know if you hear from her._
> 
> _Give all my love to Sally and tell her I miss her every day. I’ve got her picture up on my bedside and I kiss it every night._
> 
> _Best,_
> 
> _Bucky_

* * *

> _Dear Bucky,_
> 
> _I was very pleased to hear of your safe arrival. Sally actually burst into tears, but she didn’t want me to tell you that. She does, however, want me to let you know that she loves you too. She’s very sappy that way._
> 
> _I’ve tried Guinness once before, in an Irish pub that my mother took me to when I turned eighteen. I think I’ll stick to wine, thank you, and you know how much I hate wine._
> 
> _Oh, and you should be nicer to Dolores. It’s not her fault you shouldn’t be together. Get her a gift basket or something, would you?_
> 
> _The bakery is very busy this time of year. People like our hot chocolate and the leftover Christmas cake that is now half-price. Since this leftover scheme is going so well, our boss has decided we are not allowed to keep leftovers and are instead to sell them all half-price the next day. Mother is very disappointed, but I’ve assured her that any of those leftovers are mine to take._
> 
> _I miss you, bud. Christmas went too fast. Sally wears the scarf you got her every day. Of course, you didn’t get me a present, so I expect one from you when you return._
> 
> _Sally hopes that the kiss you give her includes tongue. Gross._
> 
> _Best,_
> 
> _Steve_

* * *

> _Dear Steve,_
> 
> _My hands are shaking. Have you read the paper? It has just come out what happened in Nanjing. The Japanese soldiers committed over 450 cases of rape, murder, and God knows what else… it makes me sick to my stomach. No-one in England seems to really care. They’re all concerned with Hitler now – finally he’s being seen as a threat. Reports are that he’s re-militarising the country, as the new head of the army. Can you believe it? Another war with Germany?_
> 
> _Everyone here is talking about enlisting. Half of us are terrified and the other half can’t wait to get their hands around old Adolf’s neck. I can’t decide which side I’m on, but I’d better decide quickly. I’ll need to know._
> 
> _Tell Sally I remember when she said she’d come with me. I’m all too glad right now that she can’t._
> 
> _Best,_
> 
> _Bucky_

* * *

> _Dear Bucky,_
> 
> _Happy birthday! I hope you like the present. I’m not the best artist but I think it looks like me. Look at it when you’re about to do something stupid, and my disapproving gaze will hopefully help. Happy 19, pal._
> 
> _I’ve read the papers. They’re talking about it in the Times. All the experts are saying it’s a bit fantastical, probably smear from the American soldiers situated there. I wouldn’t worry too much. Why is this your problem, anyway? You’re an American. If all hell breaks loose, just come home. I know you’re going to say, Steve, that isn’t like you at all. And I know it isn’t. But I want you safe, bud. Sally lies awake every night thinking about what might happen to you, and I’d really like her to stop._
> 
> _I’ve enclosed a photograph of me and mother at the pictures. We finally scraped up the cash to go see the Adventures of Tom Sawyer. It was great. If they show it in England, you should go see it._
> 
> _Best,_
> 
> _Steve_

* * *

> _Dear Steve,_
> 
> _I think you’re underestimating the situation. America isn’t involved so I guess you don’t have the same news as we do here. Japan is a threat to Asia, Germany is a threat to Europe, and Italian troops are in Spain. What’s next? The Irish in France? The Russian in America? Something needs to be done about this, and the only solution is war. You know as well as I do that I’m here for two more years, and England isn’t going to hold out until then. If I learned anything from Miss Hill, it’s that war is always the answer that the government chooses. For once, I’m on board with that._
> 
> _Tell Sally to stop worrying about me. I’m a big boy. In fact, I’m a man now, and men stand up for what they believe in. I hope Sally realises that._
> 
> _I’ll be back in Brooklyn in May. She can wait until then, surely. I’ve known her to wait longer for me._
> 
> _And thank you for the present. I love it._
> 
> _Best,_
> 
> _Bucky_

* * *

> _Bucky,_
> 
> _You understand Sally’s concern. For the whole time she’s known you, you’ve been fascinated with the war, and at the same time, with mortality. Now that you’re keen for it to start… she’s scared. She wants to know if you’re okay. Really okay. And I do too._
> 
> _Steve_

* * *

 

> _Dear Steve,_
> 
> _You and Sally both know I’ve been better since I met her. I don’t like to talk about it. I spent a long time feeling bad that she was the one who saved me when I couldn’t save myself. But it’s okay. It’s okay that she saved me. It doesn’t make me any less of a man and it doesn’t make my love for her any less real. A little bit of dependency in relationships like this are necessary sometimes, I think. Don’t you?_
> 
> _So, don’t worry about me, pal. I’m gonna be a-okay. Still no news from Natasha?_
> 
> _All my love to Sally._
> 
> _Best,_
> 
> _Bucky_

* * *

> _Dear Bucky,_
> 
> _No news from Natasha. I don’t even know where she is. I’d call her house but her family scares me… is that selfish? If you want me to call, I’ll call. I hope she’s okay. Not hearing from Sam must be hard for her – if I think about all those times you and Sally didn’t write, I understand._
> 
> _The snow has all melted now. I hope it’s getting lighter where you are._
> 
> _Best,_
> 
> _Steve_

* * *

> _Steve_
> 
> _He’s done it. He’s invaded Austria. He wants to re-unify them, whatever that means. Bullshit, in my opinion. You don’t invade and occupy a country and lock up their officials to re-unify. He’s gone to Russia now, as well. A deal with the Soviets, I wouldn’t put it past him. The bastard. There’s gonna be a war, Stevie, and I’m gonna fight in it, and maybe die in it. I can’t save you from all them bullies only to back down now. I hope you understand._
> 
> _Bucky_

* * *

 

> _Bucky,_
> 
> _Do what you have to do. I’ll be here waiting for you._
> 
> _See you in two weeks._
> 
> _Best,_
> 
> _Steve_


End file.
